


tear me to pieces, skin & bone

by gossamerthoughts



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Family, Good Lucius Malfoy, Head Boy Draco Malfoy, Head Girl Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hogwarts Head Boys & Head Girls, Malfoy Family Feels (Harry Potter), Malfoy Family-centric (Harry Potter), Narcissa Black Malfoy is a Good Parent, Post-War, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Romance, Slow Burn, Supportive Narcissa Black Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 27,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25500592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gossamerthoughts/pseuds/gossamerthoughts
Summary: Post-war, 8th year. Draco tries to put himself back together, Hermione’s coping with living at Hogwarts without the steady presence of Harry and Ron, Narcissa simply wants her family to be happy, Lucius attempts to atone for his actions.
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Theodore Nott, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy & Narcissa Black Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Luna Lovegood/Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson/Ron Weasley
Comments: 126
Kudos: 158





	1. prologue: blood on a marble wall

**Author's Note:**

> chapter title from “you should see me in a crown” by billie eilish. work title from “lovely” by billie eilish. (not a HUGE billie eilish fan, but it's strangely suitable for the Malfoys.)

Malfoy Manor is brighter than she remembers, or maybe it’s simply that she’s not being dragged here by Snatchers desperate to get their money’s worth out of these runaways. She still can’t bring herself to think of the drawing-room, with its glass chandelier and echoing screams. Can’t think of Bellatrix and her wild dark hair, her maniacal eyes.

Draco looks at her a little uncertainly, his quicksilver eyes holding something that’s suspiciously close to worry. She knows _are you alright_ is on the tip of his tongue and squeezes his hand reassuringly, hoping she appeared more confident than she felt.

“Do you want a tour of the gardens?” he asks instead, his lips curling up into a half-smile. “Mother wants to have tea in the gazebo since it’s lovely out, so we can walk through the gardens on our way there.”

Hermione nods and smiles. She wonders briefly if Narcissa too cannot think of the cavernous room without cringing, can’t scrub (or rather, have her house elves scrub) the marble floors enough to rid it of the stain of a Muggleborn’s blood. If Draco knows what she’s thinking, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he caresses her hand softly with his thumb as he leads her down the path into a beautiful flower garden.

“Mother’s gotten really into gardening, after the war. Says it’s therapeutic. Maybe she feels like she has a kinship with flowers, given her name.” He smirks a little. “But she loves them. I think she simply likes caring for things,” he continues, his features softening. Hermione begins to wonder exactly how the Malfoy family dynamics are. Maybe they aren’t the borderline-evil, unfeeling, fanatical blood-purists that she had thought they were.

Though, given her run-ins with Lucius Malfoy, she was a little skeptical of everything.

She startles as they meander on and a brilliantly colored peacock brushes against her thigh, looking decidedly unfriendly.

Draco laughs, looking down almost affectionately at the bird. “Hello, Jack,” he says. “This is Hermione.”

Hermione glares at him. “You named your bird?”

He shrugs. “You name your cat.”

“That’s different!"

Jack is trying to peck at Hermione and she backs away warily. “I don’t like birds,” she mutters.

Draco laughs again, his eyes widening with mirth. “Hermione Granger, war heroine, crazy Kneazle lover, fearless and brilliant witch, is afraid of birds?”

“I am _not_ afraid of birds. I simply don’t _like_ them,” she argues, dragging him away from the peacock. “I don’t want my dress to get ruined before tea with your mother,” she says primly.

They walk past the lake, thankfully not interrupted by any more peacocks (she learns from Draco that Jack is just _one of many_ peacocks who inhabit the Malfoy estate and she shivers a little). It’s more welcoming than the lake at Hogwarts, so clear that it reflects the sky.

Finally (or maybe too soon?) they come in sight of the gazebo. “Gazebo” seems like an understatement — it’s a beautiful outdoor tearoom, protected by the elements by charms that Hermione can see shimmer just at the corner of her eyes. Narcissa Malfoy cuts a slim figure in the picturesque scene, her sky blue robes curving over her lean body perfectly, her blonde hair pinned back as she waves her wand over the table and plates appear, along with a full tea set.

Narcissa appears to sense the pair as soon as they come close, however, because she turns around with an absolutely beatific smile. “Draco, Hermione, welcome!” She pulls her son into her arms and kisses him on both cheeks in the French manner (Hermione recalls absently that Narcissa’s mother was French) and does the same to Hermione, much to the younger witch’s surprise.

Not in a thousand years did she imagine that she, Hermione Granger, would be here at Malfoy Manor _for tea_ on the arm of Draco Malfoy and being welcomed by Narcissa Malfoy. How things have changed.

“Hermione, how are classes going?” Narcissa asks politely as they sip their strong tea and nibble on the most delicious sandwiches Hermione has ever tasted.

Hermione’s eyes light up at the question; she can’t help herself. She has _missed_ a whole year of school, and despite the strangeness of going at it without Harry and Ron, she’s loved diving back into the schoolwork. Into learning. Into some semblance of normalcy. Launching into an excited recap of everything she’s learning this year, she misses the shared look between mother and son.

Narcissa looks intently at Draco, sees the way his eyes soften when he listens to Hermione speak. It reminds her of Lucius, of the way his whole demeanor would change (still does) around her. Her son tears his eyes away from his witch to meet his mother’s, a lengthy look of understanding passed between clear blue eyes and soft grey ones.

Draco doesn’t need Legilimency to know that his mother approves, despite her deeply pureblood upbringing. He’d always known that his mother simply wants him to be happy, simply wants grandchildren to dote on and take care of. Even if he never knew his aunts and uncles in any capacity (unless you counted crazy Aunt Bella), he had a feeling his mother must be lonely for some familial company.

(He didn’t know that Narcissa cried over Sirius’s death, cried when she heard her estranged niece and her husband had died and left an infant orphaned, cried when she heard Andromeda was now a grandmother and widow and sole caretaker of said infant. He didn’t know how much his mother had hidden behind propriety and closed doors and placating smiles.)

Hermione pauses. “I do apologize! I’ve monopolized the entire conversation with talk of classes. You must be bored to death.” She laughs a little, unfamiliar uncertainty coloring her voice. Her hands twitch; she fights the urge to run them through her carefully done hair, one of her bad habits that truly does _not_ help the state of her already unruly mane.

Draco squeezes her hand. Narcissa almost _beams_ at her. “Not at all, dear. I do miss Hogwarts a little myself; I had thought of becoming a healer at St. Mungos once…” The older woman looks off into the distance for a moment, her eyes glazing as she remembers a time that seems long, long ago.

Hermione looks curiously at Lady Malfoy, this prim yet strangely welcoming woman who had so easily let her into this proper, pureblood world. Even though the war was over, Hermione had thought that old habits would die much harder than that.

With a start, she realizes why she feels a strange tie of kinship with the woman. It’s the shade of loneliness she sees in Narcissa’s eyes, the longing to see a world that’s better than the one she’s in, the sharp wit and keen mind that the older woman possesses, the unwavering loyalty to her family.

It’s everything Hermione feels, has felt for ages. Her heart clenches as she surveys Narcissa, thinking about how this woman had given everything up for her son, for her husband, had been the one to betray Voldemort and protect her family. And for what? For a society that has shut her out, that spews gossip about them in the papers, even now?

Hermione knows all too well what that feels like. “I’m willing to bet you would’ve made an amazing healer, Lady Malfoy,” she says warmly.

“Oh please! Call me Narcissa.”

Draco looks between his two favorite women, not quite understanding what has passed between them or what Hermione was thinking, but feeling like this was going spectacularly well.

A shadow looms over the sunny table; the sound of a cane clacks against the floor. Everyone looks up to see a familiar figure dressed in black blocking the sunshine, his long blonde hair combed neatly out of his face. “Hello,” Lucius Malfoy says. “May I join you for tea?”


	2. you took my soul and wiped it clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco reflect upon their 6th year and how it inevitably changed the course of the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from “all i want” by kodaline.
> 
> It’s quite frankly been YEARS since I read the HP books (like I haven’t reread the last once since it came out), so apologies for any major deviances (other than the non-canon pairings lol)/OOC behavior. I *have* been reading a healthy (or is it unhealthy?) amount of Dramione FF on here, though, so that’s where character inspiration largely comes from.
> 
> There is a bit of time-skipping between the chapters (the prologue is set in the future, and now we go back to Hogwarts to examine how it all starts).
> 
> I also think of these characters a little differently than when I first read the books, being significantly older than my preteen/teenage self, ha. OK. Let’s get into it (this is a long one!)

**_Hogwarts, 1996._ **

“He’s hiding something!” Harry bursts out. Hermione looks worriedly at the students around them in the Great Hall and quickly casts a silencing charm. She has a feeling Harry is going to only get louder from here.

“Who, mate?” Ron asks obliviously, earning himself an eye roll from Hermione.

“He’s talking about Malfoy, obviously.”

“There’s something not right. He’s skulking around more than usual, and you  _ know _ strange things, dark things, have been happening at Hogwarts.” He doesn’t need to mention Katie Bell’s near-death at Hogsmeade to make them shudder at the memory.

Hermione’s mind is going into overdrive, trying to piece together the puzzle. Something  _ wasn’t _ right here, Harry was right, but she doesn’t think Malfoy has it in him to  _ kill _ another human, even if he is an entitled prat.

“He looks sick,” she says instead, her voice soft and more concerned-sounding than she realizes. “He’s pale and has enormous bags under his eyes; I don’t think he’s eating at…”

“Are you  _ keeping tabs _ on Malfoy?” Ron asks, incredulous.

“Not ‘keeping tabs,’ Ronald. I simply notice things.” She levels him with a glare that effectively shuts him up.

“I’m going to find out what Malfoy is up to,” Harry says, pushing his plate aside and standing up. Both Ron and Hermione watch him as he strides out of the Great Hall, the former getting up after a beat and following his best friend out. The latter stays seated; her eyes inevitably turn to the subject of their discussion.

Malfoy is sitting at the Slytherin table, his eyes unreadable as ever. But his body language is far more telling than any expression he could wear. His normal pristine robes are slightly wrinkled and askew; his hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in a few days. He sits with his head slumped in one hand, as if that hand carries the weight of his whole body. As if he’s given up on something. Even as his fellow Slytherins laugh and smile and joke raucously amongst themselves, Malfoy seems to be at a standstill, in his own little world. If Hermione didn’t know better, she would say that he seems depressed.

She gives herself a little shake.  _ Everyone _ could get depressed; it wasn’t simply a Muggle thing. She eyes Malfoy again, this time out of the corner of peripherals in case anyone was watching (not that anyone ever does).

Hermione Granger does not know what’s wrong with Draco Malfoy, but it’s a puzzle to her. And if there was anything that Hermione liked to solve, it was a puzzle.

* * *

Draco feels the enormity of his task weighing upon him and wonders how it even got this bad. In the back of his mind, he knows he should blame his father. Knows that if Lucius hadn’t taken the Dark Mark all those years ago, he wouldn’t be here, sitting in the Great Hall, trying to figure out how to kill Albus fucking Dumbledore.

But his more logical self knows that there are no neutrals in this impending war. Even if the Malfoys hadn’t supported the Dark Lord the first time around, they would inevitably be pressured to this time. And it’s not like they had much of a choice, with his crazy Aunt Bella as the Dark Lord’s most fanatical supporter.

She scared the shit out of him. He wonders briefly if she scared her husband too. She probably does.

His task has been the iron cross from them all to bear. His parents didn’t even bother casting a silencing charm the last time they argued; his mother was  _ livid _ at Draco being “chosen” for the task. As if it were meant to be some great honor.

_ I was always jealous of Potter being the “Chosen One.” I guess it’s come back to bite me in the arse, _ he thinks bitterly.

He’s heard the whispers between Narcissa and Snape that this was to punish Lucius for failing at the Department of Mysteries, has seen his father get up tiredly from the master suite, where he has not slept for as long as Draco can remember. He’s seen his mother shut the door to her own suites solidly and ward them so his father cannot get in. His family was crumbling, his world was crumbling, everything was falling apart. Snape wanted to  _ help _ him, but what could Snape do?

_ This is my burden to bear, _ he thinks. But he also knows it’s killing him.

He remembers the days when his only concern was whether or not he’d get the latest broom model for Christmas (he always knew he would) and whether Granger would beat him in earning top marks (he always knew she would). How young they were, then.

Draco sighs, feeling much older than his sixteen years, and begins to get up from the table. He hasn’t touched his food — it all tastes like poison sliding down his throat anyway. Crabbe gives him a blank, slightly concerned look, and Draco thinks he may need to pull himself together a bit. If even Crabbe has noticed something was wrong, it must be quite obvious to anyone who was actually paying attention.

Though, if he were to be honest, no one really pays attention to him these days. Slytherin “King” as he were, he didn’t feel much like anyone other than a shell of himself.

His eyes slide to Granger’s retreating form; she’s a few steps ahead of him in the hall. Her hair seems to have tamed itself, a flowing mass of thick curls rather than the frizzy mess it was their first year. Unbidden, his own words come back to ring in his ears:  _ No one asked you, you filthy Mudblood. _ Her stunned expression and ensuing glare piercing his soul. At the time, he thought lashing out would make him feel better. But it didn’t. Instead, he couldn’t get her liquid brown eyes out of his head at night.

Shaking his head almost imperceptibly (a bad habit Narcissa has been trying to break him of), he turns his thoughts to something else. Anything else.

But all he can think of as his eyes stay glued to the back of her head is just  _ how dumb  _ he was as a twelve-year-old, how  _ dumb _ that he thought calling someone a “Mudblood” would make him feel superior.

Draco supposes that facing death, regardless of someone else’s or his own, makes you rethink your entire perspective.

He still doesn’t know what to do about the Dumbledore problem, but he strangely feels a little better.

* * *

She finds him in the Prefect’s bathroom. She had meant to stop there for a long soak (she has taken up running around the grounds in the early morning, having a feeling that one day, her life may as well depend on her running fast enough to escape danger). Besides, it clears her head and helps her solve puzzles. Such as the intricate one that is Malfoy.

So she murmurs the password and strides in, not expecting that it would be occupied at six in the morning. But she stops short when she sees that the bath is not only occupied but that it’s occupied by Malfoy.

He’s mostly submerged; his eyes are closed but he doesn’t seem peaceful enough to be sleeping. They spring open the moment she steps closer though, and he glares at her. It seems to lack the usual scorn, Hermione thinks. Almost as if he’s too tired to muster up any.

“I —” she stops short. “Sorry?” she offers.

“You should be,” he says.

She bristles at this. “I am a Prefect too, you know. This bathroom is for  _ any Prefect,  _ so I have as much right to be here as you do.”

He sighs and runs a wet hand over his face. “Come back some other time.”

She simply glares at him and he stares right back, eyes carefully blank. Hermione breaks the silence first. “Malfoy… are you alright?”

“I don’t need your pity,” he snarls suddenly, as if he were a dragon provoked.

“I’m not pitying you. I’m just asking you a question.”

“And why should I answer you?”

“Because, despite you being a complete arse for the past six years, I actually  _ care _ when another human being seems to be in pain, even if that said human was an entitled prat for his entire existence!”

Draco doesn’t know what it is, or why, but he breaks. Maybe that was the last straw. But his shoulders rise and his eyes fill and sweet Merlin he is  _ crying in front of Hermione fucking Granger _ and he could not be more ashamed.

Hermione’s jaw falls open, but she closes it quickly as she looks at him. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

“Just leave,” he manages, his voice rough.

“No,” she says stubbornly. “I really think you need to talk to someone.”

He opens his eyes and laughs bitterly. “You wouldn’t believe me. You don’t want to hear it.”

“Try me.”

He knows that this will be the end of him, that Granger will run to Potter and he will be expelled and that the Dark Lord will likely kill him and his parents and Bellatrix will probably laugh with glee because Merlin that woman is evil incarnate, but it spills out anyway. “The Dark Lord told me to kill Dumbledore.”

Hermione doesn’t know how she prevents the gasp from escaping her lips, but she forces herself to remain calm. “And how were you going to do that.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” His tears have stopped and he raises a blond eyebrow. “How am I, a sixteen-year-old student, supposed to kill the greatest wizard that Britain has ever known?”

It’s her turn to raise an eyebrow. “Isn’t that blasphemous to Voldemort?”

Malfoy scoffs. “He’s created a cult and a legacy of fear. It doesn’t mean he’s great.”

Hermione shrugs. “Just saying.”

They’re quiet for a long moment before Hermione speaks again. “That’s why you’ve looked so down recently,” she says. It’s not an accusation. Draco searches her tone for any hint of pity, but is surprised to find that there is none.

“Snape offered to help me,” he says, surprising both of them. “But I have to bear this on my own.”

It doesn’t escape him that he’s fallen this far, confiding to a Muggleborn and Harry Potter’s best friend about his plan to kill their headmaster, who Potter idolizes more than anyone. Maybe he’s going mad. Maybe it runs in the family. Oh Merlin, what if he were turning as mad as Bellatrix —

“Why?” she asks, breaking him out of his spiraling thoughts.

“What?”

“Why do you have to kill Dumbledore? And why you?”

And it all comes out. It’s like a dam has broken, and they sit there in the Prefects bathroom until 9 that morning, until Draco’s skin has grown as wrinkly as a raisin and all his secrets and fears and insecurities are laid there in the quiet morning air. Granger is a surprisingly good listener and asks questions with a practical air that seems almost diagnostic, as if he were a patient and she were a healer at St. Mungo’s running a routine check.

As she turns to go, realizing that her bath was decidedly  _ not _ happening and that they had missed breakfast, his voice stops her. “Granger.”

She meets his eyes, determinedly  _ not _ looking any lower. “Mhmm?”

“Thank you for listening to me. Please don’t tell Potter.”

She’s surprised. He said ‘please.’ Hermione’s willing to bet that he’s never said that to a person in his life, much less a Muggleborn. “What do you want me to do?” she asks gently. “You know I can’t simply allow you to kill Dumbledore.”

His eyes are like the sky, grey and stormy and brewing with an indeterminable emotion. “Help me,” he says, almost disbelieving that those words passed through his lips. “Help me get my family and me out of this.”

He knows what he’s asking, knows the enormity of it all, knows that he’s turning to the Golden Trio for help, knows that they are  _ all _ children still playing at being adults. But he has underestimated Hermione Granger one time too many, and he was putting all his bets on her now.

* * *

She figures it out in the end. He’s not surprised — she always does.

Dumbledore is dying; Snape must be the one to kill him. They had been playing a chess game with half the board missing, but now the pieces are clear. Dumbledore, the manipulative old man, had been strangely forthright after Hermione had marched into his office and demanded answers. Draco thinks that the lack of the Boy Who Lived’s presence that day worked to their favor — Dumbledore dropped the act of the charming old man and showed them what they were truly up against.

Dumbledore dies, Snape kills him. Draco watches from the shadows, his whole body shaking. Hermione holds him, knowing that the weight of the secret they bear between them is one that Harry may never forgive her for.

And somehow, in the chaos of it all, they kiss. He entangles his hands in her curls, she drinks him in like he’s her only source of oxygen. And when they finally break apart, he feels whole. Clean. Almost healed.

They know the road ahead of them is anything but easy, but they are determined to make it work.

The Boy Who Had No Choice had found his way out. The Girl Who Knew It All had found something no book could teach her.


	3. come back & haunt me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco & Hermione arrive at Hogwarts for their 8th year, unsure of what to expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "the scientist" by coldplay

**_Hogwarts, 1998._ **

_The train is quiet this year,_ Hermione muses as she settles into the compartment reserved for the Head Boy and Girl. She curls her legs underneath her and pulls out the book she’s reading ( _Advanced Charms_ , _7th Edition_ — she has a lot to catch up on, in her opinion, war or no war), but can’t bring herself to open it just yet.

It’s strange to be back on the Hogwarts Express, strange to sit here as Head Girl, something she’s always dreamed of. Strange that Ron and Harry are not here to make a ruckus, strange that out of all her classmates, she was one of the few to come back and finish her education.

She has always been the odd one, she supposes.

Still, it’s rather too quiet for her liking and she has half a mind to go to Ginny’s compartment for some chatter to take her mind off things. Idly, she wonders who the Head Boy is; perhaps some seventh year she doesn’t know.

She’s so absorbed in her musings that she doesn’t hear the door slide open and a familiar voice greet her. “Granger.”

Her head snaps up so fast it almost gives her whiplash. Brown eyes meet grey as her breath catches in her throat. Swallowing hard, she attempts a smile. “Malfoy.”

They have slipped back into calling each other their surnames, forgetting the closeness that Draco’s secret their sixth year has instilled in them. He has not been in contact since that year, since she and Harry had been on the run, since the Malfoys had turned against Voldemort in the final battle. She’s kept up with them in the papers (she’s begrudgingly resubscribed to _The Daily Prophet_ to do so); knows that Harry has vouched for Narcissa and Draco at their trials. The pair of them have earned their freedom, but the elder Malfoy has been sitting in Azkaban since the final battle, awaiting his trial.

Even though it’s Lucius Malfoy they’re talking about, Hermione truly hopes that they have at least given him his own cell. She can’t imagine his fellow Death Eaters would be friendly toward a man whose wife and son had caused the downfall of their lord.

“That book isn’t even on our reading list for this year,” he says neutrally, jutting his chin at the thick tome on her lap.

“What?” she says. Are they not going to address the year that had passed, the things that they both have gone through? The things he had witnessed? The things they have both _done_?

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me that all that time with just Potter has made you thicker.” He’s sitting across from her now, studying her intently with his head propped in his hand.

“Draco, be serious.” She slips back into using his first name easily, as if there hadn’t been a whole war fought and clear lines drawn. “We should talk about… things. Also,” she sits up a little straighter, “why are you here?”

He sits up as well. “Come on, Granger,” he sighs. “I’m Head Boy. This is our compartment.”

“You?”

“I know, former Death Eater and all that. I figured this was their way of soliciting me back to school and keeping an eye on me.”

She grins suddenly. “Well, if there was anyone who was close to earning as high of marks as I did, it was you.”

He snorts (something he has _never_ done before meeting Hermione), but his eyes grow serious. “You’re right,” he admits softly. “I thought I could go back to normal, pretend nothing ever happened. I honestly expected to keep my head down this whole year, to stay out of the way and finish my education. But I — I need to apologize to you first. I’m sorry I couldn’t help when Bellatrix was torturing you. I was weak when you needed me the most… and I know no words can ever change the past, but I need you to know I’m sorry.”

It’s Hermione’s turn to survey him. His grey eyes are suspiciously bright; she’s seen him cry often enough that she knows he’s on the verge. He’s changed, Draco Malfoy. He’d been almost… weak, before the war, as if he didn’t have his own ideals to stand up for. But somewhere along the way (Hermione suspects it has something to do with a power-hungry madman threatening to kill his parents), Draco has become someone who fights. Someone who’s passionate and willing to learn. Someone who is strong.

He’s right. Nothing can change the fact that his aunt had carved _MUDBLOOD_ into Hermione’s arm, had tortured her for so long that she needs to get a pain potion specially made to combat the nerve damage that may be with her for her whole life. No words can atone for that.

But she never, ever blamed him. She knows as well as he the irreversible consequences had he intervened — it would have caused their entire plan to crumble around them.

“I told my mother,” he says softly, when the silence draws too long. “I told her about our friendship, told her how you helped me in sixth year. Told her that we need to protect our family, and that we could not keep living in fear of _him_.”

Warm cinnamon eyes look at him, urging him to continue. “And she told me to pass along her thanks,” he says. “I know that those words also do not mean anything, but it’s the least I can do.”

Hermione reaches for his hand, and Draco is so startled that he nearly crashes back into his seat. “I don’t blame you or your family — well, I suppose Bellatrix was technically your family, but you know what I mean — for your actions. You were trying to stay alive, just like we were. And Harry could’ve never defeated Voldemort without you throwing him your wand and your mother pretending he was dead. The whole wizarding community owes you both.”

His laugh is as bitter as it was when she had heard it in the Prefect’s bathroom all those months ago. “They think that we can never do anything to stop owing _them_.”

“People change, Draco. You’re proof of that.” She squeezes his hand, then slowly lets it go. He finds himself missing the warmth immediately, though he would never admit that.

“So, are you looking forward to sharing quarters with me?” He raises a blonde eyebrow, amused.

She pretends not to notice his change of subject as she rolls her eyes. “Only if you don’t act like an absolute prat.”


	4. it's too cold for you here & now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gossip can be insidious... but it can also have unintended side effects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from “sweater weather” by the neighborhood

**_Hogwarts, October 1998._ **

Neither Draco nor Hermione are strangers to whispered gossip, but it’s gotten to an obscene level. Hermione can’t find a single  _ corner _ of the castle to herself, other than her quarters (thank  _ goodness _ for not being in the regular dormitory). She hears the name “Harry Potter” trail before her as she walks to class, as she’s in the bathroom, as she’s sitting down picking at her food in the Great Hall. She loves Harry like a brother, but she had hoped that this year, she’d finally be able to be herself — Hermione Granger — not “Harry Potter’s friend” or “part of the Golden Trio.”

Draco has it worse. No one meets his eye — not even most of his teachers. He tries to go to class quietly, do his schoolwork quietly, eat quietly, not make a scene. It’s a laughable contrast to his earlier days at Hogwarts, where he felt like (was) the king of Slytherin.

But the words “Death Eater” and “evil” and “doesn’t even deserve to be here” and “should be in Azkaban like his father” swirl around him like Dementors, sucking tiny bits of his soul out. Perhaps what they all said was true, that he didn’t deserve to be here, that maybe he should be rotting in Azkaban like his father, like the other Death Eaters. But he  _ wanted _ to be here, wanted to learn, wanted to be good at something again, wanted a sense of normalcy in this castle where he almost killed Dumbledore and could still hear the screams of his classmates echo through the halls.

He wanted to take the steps to pursue a Potion Mastery once he graduated,  _ but all he could hear were these bloody whispers. _

Hermione can no longer find peace in her beloved library, so she settles to do her schoolwork in their common room, leaving stacks of her books on one side of the couch. It’s quieter in here anyway, and truthfully, the library doesn’t feel the same since Harry and Ron aren’t there to break the silence every few minutes with one of their annoying but endearing questions.

Draco observes her doing this for a week before he musters up the courage to ask. “May I join you?” His grey eyes betray nothing, but Hermione can sense a hint of vulnerability in his stance.

She laughs a little. “It’s your common room too.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to disturb you.” She looks cozy here, in her long burgundy jumper and soft pants, her legs tucked under her as she buries her face in a book.

“Not at all,” she replies, then points to the other end of the couch. “My books live on this side, but you and your books can live on that one.”

So Draco and Hermione begin spending more time in their cozy quarters, sharing the wide mahogany couch as they write their essays and do their assigned reading. She begins to notice that he has advanced Potions textbooks on his side of the couch; he notices that she has involuntary muscle spasms sometimes. They both open their mouths at once to —

“Do you want to help me brew —?” they both begin, only to stop short and look at each other almost embarrassedly.

“You go first,” Draco offers.

“I know you’ve always been good at potions. I’ve been thinking about trying to brew my own version of the pain potion I’ve been taking for the after-effects of the Cruciatus. This one doesn’t really help.”

He smiles almost  _ enthusiastically _ and nods. “I was going to offer my help. I’ve been thinking about it as well; I’ve had my fair share of the curse being used on me…” he trails off, then continues determinedly, this time not quite meeting her eyes. “Not as badly as you have, but I have a few ideas that I think could improve the potion you’re taking.”

And so they begin. They build a mini potions laboratory in their quarters, complete with a bench and various cauldrons and ingredients. As they bounce ideas off each other, theorizing and experimenting (one of which almost singes Draco’s eyebrows off and nearly catches Hermione’s hair on fire), the heaviness that has wrapped around them since the war seems to dissipate.

“It’s funny that neither of us were sorted into Ravenclaw,” Hermione says off-handedly one day.

Draco makes a face. “I don’t want to be in Ravenclaw.”

“I didn’t either, but we’re both clearly intelligent people.”

“Some things matter more than intelligence.”

Hermione opens her mouth (she’s not quite sure if she’s starting an argument or acquiescing), but shuts it again when she sees the potion turn a soft lavender color. “I’ve never seen that before,” she says instead, eyeing the potion with interest.

“It means it’s stabilized,” Draco says. “I’ll test it for a few days and if it’s safe, you can begin taking it the week after next.”

She glares at him. “You’re not a guinea pig.”

“Neither are you.”

Stubbornness may be an inherently Gryffindor trait, but Draco could be just as obstinate as she. “It’s not a request.”

“Why does your safety matter less than mine?”

“Because  _ no one cares about me,  _ Hermione! ” he bursts out, then snaps his mouth shut.

“That’s not true,” she says softly.

“Fine. Perhaps my mother and father do. But no one else would really miss me.”

“You’re not going to  _ die,  _ Draco. At the very most the potion would put you in a short coma depending on the dosage. And  _ I  _ would miss you.”

He doesn’t say anything, just turns back to the potion. “I’m bottling it now and warding it so you can’t take any.”

She sighs, snorts, waves him off. “You win this one, Draco, but watch out.”


	5. just keep me where the light is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius stands trial; Draco and Narcissa attend and are surprised by one of the witnesses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from “gravity” by john mayer. A very Malfoy-fam centric chappie, but I love them.

**_Hogwarts, November 1998._ **

“Can you owl me what our assignments are for today?” Draco asks as they’re walking to breakfast.

She raises an eyebrow. “Where will you be?”

“I… have business to attend to.”

Hermione doesn’t ask any questions, sensing that he really didn’t want to talk about it. “Sure,” she says instead.

They make their way to their respective house tables, and Ginny nudges Hermione with her elbow as she sits down.

“Ow!” Hermione complains. Ginny had  _ strength _ .

“You and Malfoy have been spending an awful lot of time together,” Ginny teases, brown eyes alight with mischief.

Hermione sighs. “We live together as Head Boy and Girl and are the only eighth years here, apart from a few others. Plus, you know how bad the gossip gets — I can’t even study in the library anymore because people are always bloody hovering!”

“Excuses, excuses,” Ginny teases. “He looks much better this year. He looked  _ awful  _ last year, like he was wasting away or something. Always had those giant bloody bags under his eyes. But Merlin, this year, all the girls have been drooling over him. Even if they won’t admit it, because he  _ is _ still Malfoy.”

She pauses; they both survey the Slytherin table where Draco sits with his posse. They can’t hear the conversation across the Great Hall, but Draco seems to be deep in thought as Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott grin and prod at each other, Pansy Parkinson rolls her eyes and flips her dark shiny hair over one shoulder, and Astoria Greengrass sighs and straightens her spine, her long blonde hair shifting down her back as she does so.

They’d heard the whispers about her sister, how Daphne had run off with a Muggleborn a-la-Andromeda and opted not to return to Hogwarts. Last they’d heard, the couple were off in America, where the gorgeous blonde and her handsome husband had quickly made it big in Hollywood.  _ Emilia Clarke _ , she was now called.

But her eyes return to Draco. He’s filled out some, though he’s still lean. Although he’s too proud to beg for his old spot on the Quidditch team back, she knows he’s been flying on his own, suspects he misses the freedom of being in the air with no voices chattering around him. The flying’s given him the broadness in his shoulders back and a healthier glow to his complexion. His hair’s grown out, no longer glued to his head and combed back like it had been in his youth, nor scraggly and long like it had been sixth year.

He looked like a normal British boy. A very handsome, normal British boy.

Ginny has been silent while Hermione thinks, but she’s been studying her friend. She’s always been more observant than people give her credit for ( _ typical _ , she thinks, _ that they think a woman and a Weasley and a Gryffindor can’t sit back and observe _ ). It’s only been a few months since they’ve arrived at Hogwarts, but she notices a closeness between Hermione and Malfoy that hadn’t been there before. They’re careful not to seem  _ too _ close, careful to call each other by their surnames, but despite everything, they are friends at the very least.

Though she’s pretty sure that it’s definitely something more. “Like what you see?” she says slyly, breaking the silence.

Hermione finds herself wanting to bang her head on the table, but since that’s not quite socially appropriate, she settles for taking a too-large bite of eggs instead. “Hmph,” is all she says through her food.

“Anyway, I ship you guys.” The redhead’s eyebrows waggle.

That’s the last straw. “Why do you even like Malfoy?” Hermione demands.

Ginny shrugs. “I don’t  _ like _ him per se, but I do think everyone’s being rather harsh. I know Harry would’ve been dead if it wasn’t for him and his mum, and that when the Carrows were running the school, he shielded us from a lot of their torturing by offering to ‘torture’ us himself. I caught him telling a few first years to stay out of their way next time; he simply told them to sit in the classroom and scream like he was using the Cruciatus on them. I don’t think he’s as bad as everyone makes him out to be.”

Sometimes, Hermione forgets just how observant her friend is. Maybe she’d gotten too used to being best friends with Harry and Ron, who were as observant as the sweaters Molly knits at Christmas.

Unsure of how to respond, she glances down at the morning’s  _ Daily Prophet _ that someone has left behind. Lucius Malfoy’s aristocratic face sneers at her from the front page. He somehow still manages to appear as if he’s looking down on her, even though his hair is scraggly and he’s unshaven from his months in Azkaban.

_ LUCIUS MALFOY, FORMER DEATH EATER, TO GO ON TRIAL TODAY. _

_ Oh,  _ Hermione thinks.  _ This must be where Draco’s going to be all day today. _

* * *

_**Ministry of Magic** _

The third time Draco is in front of the Wizagamot is not any easier than the first two times. At least he’s not the one chained to the desk this time, with everyone’s glares burning through his skin.

No, that spot is reserved for his father today.

He shifts slightly and looks at his mother. Narcissa Malfoy is as impassive as ever, her sky blue robes perfectly pressed and her hair immaculate. But the corner of her lip twitches a little as she looks at her husband.

Lucius scans the room exactly once, surveying the room full of people he once deemed his inferiors, looking at his wife and son last. His blue eyes look as cold as ever, but Draco sees him incline his head a fraction of an inch toward his wife.

Draco’s grown up with this, these micromovements between his parents that seem to work perfectly in lieu of conversation. It’s strangely reassuring to see it now.

As the witnesses are called to stand, he notes with pride that his father does not look desperate. He does not project anything other than absolute calm and confidence, a stark contrast to some of those last days when the Dark Lord had occupied their home.

“Harry Potter is called to the stand.”

Draco starts a little despite himself and Narcissa shushes him quietly under her breath. Lucius’s eyes narrow, but he says nothing.

The world seems to fall away. Draco’s relationship with his father is complicated, but he knows his mother loves his father more than almost anything in the world. And for that fact alone, he wants Lucius out of Azkaban and back in Malfoy Manor, where he belongs. Harry’s testimonial had the power to sway the jury either way — he was the Chosen One after all.

“Lucius Malfoy recognized me at Malfoy Manor when I’d been captured, but he did not tell Bellatrix Lestrange, his sister-in-law and fellow Death Eater. If he had, we’d all have died that night. And at the final battle, he and his family were instrumental in helping us defeat Voldemort.”

“Mr. Potter, you testified on behalf of Narcissa and Draco Malfoy, who have been cleared due to their actions in the final battle. But what did Lucius Malfoy do to aid you?”

_ Nothing,  _ Draco thinks.  _ Nothing.  _ He remembered the almost maniacal look in his father’s eyes as he pulled Draco aside, hissing that this would regain the Dark Lord’s favor.

Harry continues. “He was not given the opportunity to disobey Voldemort to his face — he had to keep up appearances — but I saw him hex a few other Death Eaters when no one was looking. He let me and Hermione go when we faced him in that battle; he blatantly looked the other way.”

The jury begins gasping. No one can  _ prove _ that, of course, but the Golden Boy’s words are taken as irrevocable truth these days. Draco’s unsure of if this is true or not, but there’s no reason to believe Potter would  _ lie _ to keep his father out of Azkaban. He’s pretty sure Potter hated his father more than Potter hated him.

“The jury will take a recess and reconvene in five minutes,” the judge announces

It’s the longest five minutes of Draco’s life. Finally, the jury reassembles and the judge proclaims, “Lucius Malfoy is sentenced to house arrest for one year due to his actions in the war and must pay a fine of five hundred thousand Galleons. There will be a tracking spell placed on his wand for the duration of his house arrest, so that the Ministry may monitor all spells he casts.”

Narcissa slowly lets out a breath she’s unconsciously been holding; Draco squeezes his mother’s hand so hard, he fears he’ll break a bone. And finally, Lucius meets their eyes squarely and smiles, a hint of his old self reemerging in his eyes.

_ They would be together again. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol I feel like writing is my lil form of escapism during these crazy times, so expect frequent updates :)
> 
> P.S. The timeline is a little off re: Emilia's first appearance in Hollywood, I think, but I wanted to add a lil something in there ;)


	6. all my demons wanna pull me to my grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head between Draco and Hermione (with a little help from Ginny, a surprising ally, and the portraits, of course).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from “faith” by the weeknd

**_Hogwarts, December 1998._ **

“Severus,” Dumbledore says, his blue eyes twinkling in that immensely annoying manner that meant he was about to meddle in someone’s business, “have you noticed anything between your godson and Hermione Granger?”

It’s one of the rare moments when McGonagall is out of her office. The portraits have deemed this “Gossip Hour” — not that they minded the Headmistress listening in on their gossip, but sometimes they wanted to talk without her knowing.

Snape levels a glare at his former Headmaster. Dumbledore never did apologize for everything he put Snape through, how much he  _ used _ him to further his own ends, the Order’s ends, but in death, Snape has found forgiveness for the old man. Well, almost.

“Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger? Lucius Malfoy would have a field day.” He snorts, imagining his old school friend turning purple with rage.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed anything.” Dumbledore eyes him. “You’re much too smart for that.”

Snape’s glare could kill — if they weren’t already both dead. “The only portrait of me in Hogwarts is here. Not much use for spying purposes.”

“They remind me of you and Lily,” Dumbledore says softly, ignoring him (per usual). “Draco wants to be a Potions Master, did you know that?”

Snape is quiet for a long moment. His black eyes are unreadable but a modicum softer as he looks up at Dumbledore once more. “I hope he doesn’t make the same mistake I did.”

It’s then Phineas Black chooses to wake up. “ _ Draco Malfoy _ , who’s now Lord Black, and  _ Hermione Granger? _ ”

Minerva walks in. “ _ What? _ ” she demands.

Snape glares again, Dumbledore twinkles, Minerva looks disapproving, Phineas looks like a mix between gleeful and disgusted.

“Shut up, Phineas,” Dilly says finally.

* * *

It’s the strangest thing, really. Ginny Weasley and Pansy Parkinson have become friends.

Ginny had wanted to hex the other witch into the next millennium at first (that bitch had given up Harry, for Merlin’s sake!), but looking at Parkinson this year, returning to a school whose students  _ hated _ her, trying to appear brave and  _ okay…  _ well, Ginny felt bad for her.

Not bad enough to make amends, but bad enough to not actively shout insults as she passed through the hallways.

But the day she found Parkinson in a corner of the library, crying and hyperventilating and looking like she may well pass out — that was the day they became friends. Ginny had run over, made Parkinson look at her. “Are you having a panic attack?” she asked softly. “Breathe with me. In through the nose for one, two, three, four. Out for one, two, three, four.” And she continued breathing with Pansy until the witch had calmed down enough to point at her bag. “Blue bottle of potion.”

Ginny pulled out what looked like a modified version of a Calming Draught and gave it to Pansy, who uncorked it and downed it in one go. Looking much calmer, she gazed up with the redhead with a mixture of gratitude and embarrassment. “Don’t tell anyone about this, Weasley,” she warned.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Ginny had replied. “I get them sometimes too, you know,” she said, lowering her voice. “What’s the potion you took?”

Pansy had looked at the empty bottle, then back up at Ginny. “Draco has been making me batches. It’s a Calming Drought, but specifically designed for panic attacks. It doesn’t make you too loopy either. I have another one in my bag —” She pulled out an identical blue bottle and handed it to Ginny. “Take it. I’ll ask Draco to make a bigger batch for the both of us.”

Ginny had hummed in pleasure and helped Pansy up. As they had parted ways, Ginny found herself thinking that Slytherins weren’t so bad after all. Another point for Malfoy.

So a tenuous friendship had been born. And as the two girls got to know each other better, Ginny found that Pansy wasn’t the simpering, clingy gold digger that everyone assumed she was. Well, maybe she had been in the past, but this post-war Pansy was one who was sharp, a little jaded, unerringly frank, and most importantly, loved to play a hand in her friend’s love life.

“I think Malfoy and Hermione should get together.” Ginny says this without preamble.

Pansy looks at her.

“What?” Ginny says. “Don’t tell me you still have the hots for him.”

The dark-haired witch snorts. “Please, I’m over that. Besides, I was just trying to prove my worth by hanging off his arm and he just liked the attention. I don’t think he really liked me all that much when we were together.” She pauses, looking thoughtful. “Draco  _ has  _ been nicer these days. Much less of a prat. I also… I think she’s been healing for him.”

Ginny nods enthusiastically. “They’re great for each other. But knowing Hermione, she won’t do anything.”

“And knowing Draco, he thinks he’s not good enough for her.”

“We need to do something.”

* * *

The restaurant is cozy, an idyllic respite from the howling winds and bitter cold of the Scottish winters. Candles are present at each table, lending a soft glow to the diners’ faces. A fire is crackling merrily in the hearth and the tantalizing scent of roast mixes with the soft chatter of the restaurant-goers in the air.

Hermione walks in, dressed in a dark green jumper and dark blue jeans, unwrapping the thick gray scarf from her neck as she looks for Ginny. “I’m Hermione Granger,” she tells the hostess. “The reservation may be under Ginny Weasley?”

The hostess’s blue eyes light up with what looks like  _ amusement _ as she looked at Hermione. “Ah, yes. Your table will be right here.” She leads Hermione to a small table in the corner, where a man is sitting and gazing out the window. As he turns to look up at them, shock registers in both their faces.

“Please, be seated Miss Granger,” the hostess says. “I’ll be right back with your waiter and some water.” With a wink, she walks away, leaving Hermione and Draco to gape at each other.

“What’re you doing here?” she finally manages. He’s dressed in chinos and a dark gray sweater, the color bringing out the intensity of his eyes.

He looks her up and down. “I could ask you the same thing.” He smirks. “I like the green on you.”

“ _ Ginny! _ ” Hermione gasps, still standing. “That sneaky little…”

“Sit, please. You’re scaring the other diners.” He’s still smirking, but he’s more amused than anything.

Hermione sits with a huff. “She told me we were having a girl’s night, dinner at ‘this fabulous restaurant,’ to ‘wear green, Hermione, please because I want to take photos and the green will look great with my red hair.’ I can’t believe I fell for that!”

Draco shrugged. “Pansy told me the same thing. ‘Draco, let me take you out to dinner as an apology for all those years I spent attached to your side. Oh, and do wear that gray sweater that brings out your eyes. I want to send a pic back to you mum.’”

They laugh a little awkwardly. The waiter arrives with water. “Would you like anything to drink?” he asks.

“Wine, please.” Both answer immediately. The waiter grins. “First date?” he raises an eyebrow.

Both Draco and Hermione groan. They were going to  _ kill _ Ginny and Pansy when they got home.

* * *

At the restaurant bar, a redhead and a raven-haired woman survey the corner table, sipping on their glasses of red wine. “Step one, complete.” They clink glasses quietly, then go back to watching the couple at the table.

“Onto step two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The portraits were fun to write (RIP Snape). Curious to hear what you all thought of the surprising ally/friendship!


	7. you drew stars around my scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione returns to Hogwarts for New Year's Eve, hoping that she might find a certain someone there as well...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from “cardigan” by taylor swift (I've been listening to album on repeat!)

**_Hogwarts, January 1999._ **

Winter hols had passed quite uneventfully – that is, no threats of Death Eaters bursting into the Burrow and no danger of impending death. Hermione had relented and gone to the Burrow for Christmas and Christmas Eve, but she missed her parents terribly and thought of them often. The war was over, she  _ could _ bring them home, but… she didn’t know how.

What she had done to their memories was unprecedented; no matter how hard she had tried, she couldn’t find anyone who knew how to reverse the effects of the memory charm without risking permanent brain damage.

But at the Burrow, with its almost frenetic hustle and bustle, she could barely hear herself think, so there wasn’t much room to dwell on the sad things. Plus, it was more than a little funny to see Ron’s ears turn magenta whenever Harry and Ginny snuck a kiss when they thought no one was looking.

It had been too much for her to stay for much longer, so she decided to go back to Hogwarts for the remainder of the break, looking forward to some peace and quiet. She envisioned cozy nights in the common room with the fire roaring and the snow falling, long fuzzy socks warming her feet and a stack of delicious books to get through with no interruptions…

So why is she here now, standing in front of the Head Dorms, wondering hopefully if Draco is also back from break?

Things had been a little strange for them since their pseudo-date; neither quite knew how to address it, so they didn’t. Instead, they resumed their friendship as usual, to Ginny and Pansy’s chagrin (though they also did  _ not _ kill the duo, as Draco and Hermione had threatened).

Hermione sighs. She’s not quite sure  _ what _ she wants to do, how she feels about it all. She knows that there’s never been anyone at Hogwarts who can challenge her intellectually as he does, who doesn’t mind that she spends half her time reading about things that aren’t immediately useful (she still believes that it’ll all come into play at some point), and knows how to be companionably quiet.

“ _ Initium novum _ ,” she says, knowing enough Latin to understand that their password means “new beginnings,” and smiling a little at the appropriateness of it all.

The door swings open and the common room is empty. It  _ is  _ December 30th after all; of course Draco would be spending the entire holiday with his family. They probably also appreciated the quiet that this year brings, the peace that comes with the knowledge that Voldemort would never again torture hostages in their manor.

Leaving her suitcase packed, she goes to shower, change, and immediately fall asleep. Spending time with the Weasleys really does a number on her.

* * *

New Year’s Eve dawns cold and bright. Hermione takes advantage of the solitude and goes jogging, strangely liking the way the icy air stings her cheeks as she empties her mind and fills her lungs.

After a hot shower, long breakfast (she cajoles the house elves to make her French toast and attempts to give them late Christmas presents; they smile at the first and look upset by the second), and foray into the library, it’s already mid-afternoon and Hermione settles comfortably into the couch. She’s attempting to concentrate on her latest book ( _ Crazy Rich Witches _ , a novel that’s very romance heavy and contains absolutely nothing useful, but is quite entertaining), when the door swings open.

There is still snow melting off of Draco’s hair, and his cheeks are tinged pink from the cold. He looks like an ice king, all fair skin and light hair, and is wrapped in so many layers that he almost looks like Hagrid.

Hermione grins and tells him so.

Draco rolls his eyes, unwinding his black scarf and shedding his thick black overcoat. “‘S  _ cold _ ,” he complains. “Hate the cold.”

“How  _ did _ you deal with the Slytherin dungeons all those years then?” she asks curiously, patting the sofa next to her and surreptitiously casting a warming charm on his side.

“Lots of warming charms,” he says, settling down next to her with a sigh.

They’re talking, but Hermione is warm and her eyes droop closed after a while. She doesn’t remember the last time she’s felt this at peace…

* * *

She wakes with a start, still unused to waking up slowly. A year on the run will do that, she supposes. But she’s against something warm, and that something is  _ moving _ .

“Mmm ‘s sleep time,” a low voice grumbles, drawing her closer.

Oh.  _ Oh.  _ She must have fallen asleep; how she and Draco got into this spooning position on the couch is far beyond her. But he’s still half asleep, one arm encircling her waist protectively. She glances at her watch. Five o’clock. McGonagall is expecting her for New Year’s Eve dinner; more students than usual have stayed at Hogwarts for the holidays, and it’s a feast that the Headmistress wants them all at.

“Draco,” she says softly, wriggling a bit to loosen his hold.

He wakes up fully and starts as well, almost jerking her off the couch entirely when he twitches with surprise. “I— oh,” he says. Very eloquent.

Hermione smiles despite herself. “We should get ready for the feast. McGonagall’s expecting us.”

Draco doesn’t seem to want to move; he mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “comfy here” into her hair. She wiggles again, trying to get out in earnest this time (she needs to pee,  _ badly _ ) and feels something poking her behind.

_ Oh. _

Draco realizes this too and nearly pushes her off onto the floor as he sits up. “Yes. Let’s go get ready. I need to shower.” And he darts into his room.

“You forgot your luggage—” Hermione starts, then sighs. “Nevermind.”

Grinning a little, she goes to take another shower of her own. She’s feeling quite heated.

* * *

Deciding to finally unpack her trunk was a bad idea, in retrospect. But Hermione can’t find anything she wants to wear in her limited closet, and the majority of her clothes are in her trunk anyway.

She’s increasingly horrified as she draws her clothes out one by one. They all seem to have… shrunk? The skirts look indecently short; the sweaters quite snug, the jeans so skin-tight that she’s sure they look pasted on.

Annoyed, she attempts to Transfigure them, but they don’t budge. With a growl, she settles on a grey skirt and a jumper (she’s distressed to see that  _ all of her jumpers are also now green _ ), and glances in the mirror as she’s done.

Although it’s more scandalous than anything she’d ever buy for herself, she can’t deny that she looks… good. Feels good too.

“Dammit, Ginny,” she mutters. She knows the witch is up to something, and Ginny is the only person who had access to her whole trunk _and_ is devious enough to do this sort of thing. How she managed the anti-Transfiguration charm is a whole other matter, one that actually intrigues Hermione quite a bit.

With a shake of her head, she heads into the common room to wait for Draco.

She’s finished getting ready first, of course. The man takes longer on his hair and outfit than most girls she knows. But when he opens the door and walks out, she can’t blame him.

Not at all.

His hair looks like white gold, so soft that she wants to run her fingers through it immediately. He’s wearing grey slacks and a black jumper that clings to him enough that she can see his strong arms and chest through it. _He does look more filled out than last year,_ her traitorous mind thinks. As he walks toward her, she catches a hint of spearmint and sandalwood.

“Get some new clothes over the holidays?” he smirks down at her, eyes lingering on her newly exposed curves and bare legs.  His pupils look dilated, his eyes dark and hungry.

_ Interesting _ , she notes, as he continues canvassing her body with his stormy grey gaze.

“In… a manner,” she replies, smirking in return.

And later, when the clock strikes midnight, signaling the start of a new year, they look at each other a little awkwardly, a little too intensely to be friends, a little too uncertain to be anything but.

Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleepy Draco is MY FAVORITE.


	8. born from just a single glance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night patrol doesn't go as planned for Draco and Hermione (but they aren't complaining about it at all).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from "illicit affairs" by taylor swift. note: this gets a lil explicit.

**_Hogwarts, February 1999._ **

It’s been  _ a whole month _ and Hermione still hasn’t figured out how to get her clothes back to normal. But she’s gotten more looks from the boys and approval from the girls, so as silly as it is, she doesn’t quite mind. It’s nice to feel  _ wanted _ for once. She’d never admit it to Ginny though, who blows her kisses whenever Hermione threatens to hex the cure out of her.

Still, it’s not quite  _ comfy _ . She’s thinking about this as she and Draco patrol one night, her too-short skirt feeling breezier than she’d like.

As they round the corner, they hear the unmistakable sounds of snogging. “Oi! Get a room!” Draco says loudly while Hermione snorts.

“They  _ are _ in a room, technically,” she points out as they lift up a tapestry to reveal a Slytherin fifth year and Gryffindor fourth year together, both looking a little panicked.

Hermione sighs. “Go back to bed. We won’t take points off.”

The pair scampers off, and Hermione hears Draco lift the tapestry and walk in after her. “Going easy on them, Granger?” he asks.

“I—”

“Relax, I’m just joking.”

He approaches her, something unreadable in his eyes. She’s against the wall, staring at him with wide eyes. Watching him.

“Did you get into trouble snogging boys in places like this?” he asks, his voice a low growl. “Knowing that someone could come in at any point? Or was the Gryffindor Princess too much of a goody-two-shoes to risk it?” He steps closer, backing her against the wall.

She says nothing still.

“Have you been a good girl, Hermione?” His eyes grow darker still. She can smell the spearmint toothpaste he uses, the familiar scent of sandalwood and a faint scent of new parchment. His fingertips ghost at her sides, trail over the hem of her blasted skirt.

She swallows, looks up at him. “I always try to be a good girl,” she says primly. Nothing in her voice would betray that fact that they’re having anything  _ but _ a normal conversation, but her cheeks are flushed and it has Draco wondering if the rest of her is just as flushed as well.

“I always did like the good girls,” Draco breathes into her ear. Hermione shudders involuntarily, feeling chills run down her spine. She’s taken by the sudden urge to pull him into her, to send their lips crashing against each other like the stormy sea against a cliffside.

But she fights the urge. Because she is, after all, a good girl, and they are in this hidden room after hours, on patrol as Head Boy and Girl, having kicked the room’s previous occupants out.

She looks up to find a smirk on Draco’s face. He could feel the shudder, she knows it. He  _ knows _ what he’s doing to her; the whispers that had circulated the girl’s dormitory fifth year had been a testament to that.  _ Lucky Parkinson, _ more than one Gryffindor girl had said. Probably the first time anyone had said that, really.

His arms effectively trap her in; he has one palm on either side of her. Their height difference becomes very apparent — he nearly towers over her at almost six feet, while she stands at a mere five foot four.

“Do you want to break some rules with me, Hermione?” He quirks an eyebrow, daring her to say yes.

And Hermione Granger never backs down from a challenge.

She reaches up to thread her fingers through his silvery hair. Closing her eyes, she inhales his scent in deep before doing what she had imagined moments prior — snogging the living daylight out of him.

His mouth is hungry on hers, almost desperate. She feels the fire in his lips, feels the same burning need rise up in her. She’s kissing him like he is water and she is parched, dying of thirst. She’s kissing him like he’s the last man on earth, like he is her only salvation. He’s kissing her like he can’t get enough, can never get enough, his need apparent.

A moan escapes her as he pulls away. She protests feebly before feeling his lips on her earlobe, her neck, trailing his way down her clavicle.

She’s grasping for his pants without even intending to, and she can feel him smirk against her skin. “Eager, are we?”

“We’ve already broken the rules. Might as well shatter them with reckless abandon.” Her tone is playful, her eyes dark.

“Hmm.” He reaches under her skirt and brushes a fingertip over her knickers. “You’re so wet, Hermione. For me.” He gives another hum of appreciation as Hermione practically  _ writhes _ under his ministrations.

“Yes,  _ please _ Draco.”

“I bet you’ve never been touched like this. Pleasured like this.” He sees her open her mouth to protest, then qualifies his statement — “By anyone other than yourself, I mean.” He grins wickedly as she colors furiously.

“Merlin, Draco, I  _ need you. _ ”

“You need me to do what?”

She growls furiously, looking a little like an angry cat as she glares at him. “You know what.”

“No, I don’t.” He feigns ignorance, enjoying seeing her all worked up. “Say it for me, O Brightest Witch of Her Age.”

“I need your cock inside me,  _ now _ ,” she bites out.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “I aim to please.”

And with that, he shoves her soaked knickers aside, pulls himself out, wets his dick and pumps it a few times before slowly easing it in. She gasps involuntarily at the feeling of being so completely  _ filled _ in the best way, and he groans as he feels her tighten around him.

“Merlin, Hermione. You feel so fucking good.”

And he starts to move. If Hermione could form coherent thoughts, she’d say that those gossipy Gryffindor girls were right —  _ lucky Parkinson.  _ And now, lucky her.

Everything falls away as they lose themselves in each other, in the pants and moans and touches. And when they do cum, they cum together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco just can't help himself ;)


	9. you'd get your knuckles bloody for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ron visit Hogwarts; angry!Draco makes an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from "exile" by taylor swift (I've been listening to this album on repeat and this whole song makes me think of Dramione hehe)

**_Hogwarts, March 1999._ **

“‘Mione!” a familiar voice shouts and Hermione spins around, startled and a little annoyed at the use of the nickname. But only two people ever dared call her that…

“Harry! Ron!” she squeals, feeling like she’s twelve again, and leaps into the arms of her boys. She had never been a clingy girl, but she’d missed her boys more than she liked to admit. If it weren’t for Draco, she suspected she’d be terribly lonely here at Hogwarts without them.

Both boys grinned ear to ear, looking eerily like Fred and George. Hermione thinks of the former with a pang. It was inconceivable to think of one twin without the other, but here they were. “Missed us?” Harry jokes, mirth flashing in his bright green eyes.

Hermione smacks him, then steps back to fully survey the pair of them. Auror training has done them good — has filled them out (they all had been too skinny before) and given them a new air of confidence, especially Ron. It seems like the redhead has finally found something that he’s good at, something that he doesn’t have to compare himself to Harry at too much. Hermione wonders if it’s  _ fame _ that has done him well. Ron always did want attention the most.

“Let’s grab Ginny and go on a picnic by the lake? I’ll bribe the house elves to pack us food,” Harry suggests, his eyes already searching for his girlfriend.

“Go,” Hermione urges, knowing that Ginny would be more than a little angry if Harry was kept from her for too long.

Harry gives her a grateful smile and quite literally races off. Hermione and Ron are left standing alone; a slightly awkward silence hangs between them.

It’s strange, their dynamic. Hermione has always been closer to Harry, has always thought of him as the brother she never had. Despite his brashness and proclivity for danger, they share the same common sense and unyielding loyalty.

But Ron has been hard to figure out. She suspects that Ron only became friends with her because Harry did, suspects that he only continued being friends with her because she’d help him with his schoolwork. Somewhere throughout the years, that changed. She saw his eyes lingering a moment too long when she danced with Viktor at the Yule Ball, heard about his behavior when he was under the Horcrux’s influence.

A small part of Hermione wants to acknowledge his feelings because it’s nice to be loved. After all the teasing about her hair, about her teeth, about her  _ everything  _ really, the male attention feels nice. Validating.

But the logical part of her knows that she and Ron would be a bloody disaster. They are incompatible in every single way; he infuriates her in a way Harry never does. He’s mercurial, his loyalty shifting due to his feelings. He has a good heart, but she knows that Ron needs someone who’s content to be a homemaker, to have dinner on the table and tell him he’s the greatest, not someone who’s shrill and ambitious and wants to have her own career.

Besides, while it may be easy and normal and expected to build a future with Ron, Hermione Granger has never been one for _normal_ or easy.

She’s still thinking about this when Ron suddenly turns and pulls her close, pressing his lips to hers.

Hermione’s mouth is half-open in a gasp of surprise, and Ron takes it as an invitation, drawing her in closer and sliding his tongue in. For a moment, Hermione is still frozen by shock, then all her senses come to life and she feels her entire body reacting. She shoves him away and glares at him.

“What was _t_ _hat,_ Ronald?” she demands.

“Bloody hell, Hermione! I thought —”

“You thought  _ what _ ?”

Ron flushes as red as his hair. “I thought that you were waiting for me to kiss you.”

Hermione fights the urge to bury her face in her hands. “I was simply thinking.”

“So, do you not… feel that way?”

She bites her lip. She knows that Harry is rooting for them, that Molly is rooting for them, that Ginny is probably rooting for them (no one really liked Lavender, to be honest). But she knows that this is not where her future lay, knows that she’s never been one to do what was expected of her.

Knows that her future lays with someone else. Blonde hair and grey eyes swim into her vision suddenly, and she blinks hard to clear the thought.  “No, Ron. I had a crush on you for a bit, but I don’t think we’ll work out.”

He gapes at her, disbelieving. She wonders if Harry has given him a pep talk and told him that she’d react differently than she currently is. She’d have to have a chat with Harry later.

“Plus, I don’t want to ruin our friendship,” she continues, softening a bit at his hurt expression. “Aren’t you into blondes, anyway?” she jokes, trying to lighten the mood. “Don’t tell me that girls aren’t falling into your lap at Auror training.”

“Not enough girls there,” he grumbles, but he seems to have gotten over his initial discomfort quickly. Looping his arm through Hermione’s, they set off to find their friends.

“I hope they’re not snogging,” Ron mutters as they walk off. “I’ll puke.”

Hermione snickers, feeling like balance has been restored.

* * *

Draco hadn’t  _ meant _ to see the disgustingly happy reunion between Hermione, Potter, and the Weasel, but they were so bloody loud. And he’d been on his way back to his dorm when they’d arrived.

So he slid behind a column, his nosiness getting the best of him. He saw Potter go off to find female Weasley and was about to leave when he saw Weaselbee start snogging Hermione. If you could even call that snogging. Weasley’s technique could definitely be called sloppy at best.

Draco’s heart had dropped in a strange, unexpected way, before it was replaced with blinding anger. He stormed away, not caring if Granger and Weasley saw him.

* * *

Sun streams through the Great Lake, causing dancing shadows in the shallower water. Hermione can feel the warmth seep through her skin (she’s shed her robes in order to  _ finally  _ feel the delicious sunlight on her skin). It’s an unusually warm day for early spring — the snow would typically still be falling thick and heavy during this time. But the weather has been unpredictable, and it seems like the heavens are smiling upon them today.

The picnic is lovely, Harry and Ginny have kept the snogging to a minimum, and Ron is acting decidedly non-weird. Hermione feels light-hearted and unburdened, a feeling that’s still unfamiliar after the horrors of the war.

As she walks back to Hogwarts alone (Harry and Ginny have snuck off and Ron’s wandered off somewhere), she realizes with a start that she hasn’t seen Draco since breakfast. It’s strange how much she misses him, strange that she looks forward to seeing him at the end of each day, looks forward to their quiet evenings curled up on the couch sipping chamomile tea with honey before slipping off to bed.

“Veritas,” she says, and the Head dormitory door swings open.

But the living room is empty and Draco’s door is locked. It’s a Saturday; she supposes maybe he has plans, though he never does. But dinner is soon and they always walk down together. Shoving her worries out of her mind, she goes to take a shower and cozy up with a book before dinner.

* * *

One week. 7 days and Hermione hasn’t seen Draco at all. It’s unnerving how someone who lives in the same dorms as you can seem like such a ghost. He’s  _ alive _ , she knows that, because she sees him at mealtimes and in their classes, but he hasn’t spoken to or looked at her since Harry and Ron arrived at Hogwarts.

Hermione feels guilty for not investigating it further; she’s not stupid and knows something’s off with him, but what she can’t figure out is  _ what _ .

But the three of them don’t get enough time together this year as it is, so Hermione allows her friends to drag her into their shenanigans and finds herself crashing on the couch of the Gryffindor common room more often than not. It feels good, to be surrounded by people who love her, and not constantly fear for their safety.

But Draco lingers on the edge of her mind. So on the eighth day, after she kisses Ron and Harry’s cheeks and waves them off back to training, each with a new book on the history of Aurors (“Come  _ on _ , ‘Mione!” Ron had groaned, while Harry grinned and nodded in thanks, the secret bookworm that he is) in their bags, she makes her way back to the Head Dormitory to wait.

Draco knows her schedule as well as his own, which is how he manages to avoid her. But he forgets that she knows  _ his _ schedule too. As he strides in, clearly not expecting to see her there, he freezes. A deer in headlights.

Hermione can see the dark bags under his eyes from across the sofa. “Draco,” she says softly. He ignores her and continues walking to his room, as if she weren’t sitting on the couch like an irritated cat.

“ _ Draco _ !” she snaps. Louder. More insistent. Annoyed.

Slowly, he looks up at her. She watches as he literally  _ pastes _ on a sneer, but it’s the malice in his eyes that almost forces her a step back. “ _ What _ , Granger?” he snarls.

“Why are you avoiding me?” She keeps her tone neutral. Almost professional. As if she hadn’t noticed his reversion to using her surname.

“I’m not.”

“Don’t lie!”

The ugly sneer still splays across his face. But Hermione knows him well enough to know that it’s a facade, a mask to hide his true feelings. Because behind the anger in his stormy grey eyes, there’s a shade of hurt that she can’t quite decipher.

“Sorry I haven’t been around to watch you and Weaselbee snog at all hours,” he growls, his eyes narrowing in a rage that’s too much for this late at night.

“What?”

“ _ Don’t lie, _ ” he repeats, a mockery of her earlier words. “I saw you two.”

_ Ron’s lips on mine I didn’t want it it’s okay now he was mistaken I didn’t know Draco saw I thought I was all good but —  _ “I didn’t know he’d do that! I pushed him off right away!”

“Didn’t look like that to me.”

“Were you  _ spying _ on me?”

“I was simply going about my business. I see it now — was I your little pity project, Granger? A distraction while Weasley was gone?”

“No!” she bursts out, feeling close to tears. “Why are you being such a prick? I  _ told _ you how I felt, told you —”

He cuts her off, saying coldly, “I’m not sure I believe you anymore.” And with that, he storms to his room and slams the door, leaving Hermione to sob on the couch alone.


	10. sometimes love is not enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's the savior in this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from "born to die" by lana del rey

**_Hogwarts, April 1999._ **

A month. It’s been a month and Draco seems to have disappeared into the shadows. Hermione finds herself skittish, feeling his presence in their dorm without ever seeing him. She sees him at mealtimes, joking alongside Nott and Zabini, smiling at Greengrass, rolling his eyes at Parkinson. She wonders if he’s moved on.

She wonders if she can ever move on.

Sometimes at night, she imagines him next to her, replays their moment in the hidden room behind the tapestry, feels his fingers brush against her in the most tantalizing way. But the morning always comes, and with the new day there is no change — he still doesn’t speak to her, and she doesn’t get the chance to confront him. At this point, she’s not even sure if she wants to.

But she’s awoken one night by the sound of someone screaming. Bolting out of bed, she rushes to the common room and realizes it’s coming from Draco’s room. It’s decidedly  _ not _ a scream of pleasure (not that she truly expected him to bring a girl back here, but then again, it’s Malfoy and you never know), and she’s worried.

Of course, the door is locked, but Hermione’s known  _ Alohomora  _ since first year, so locked doors are really a nonissue for her.

Draco’s so deep in his nightmare that he doesn’t wake from the sound of his door being busted open by a spell, doesn’t notice as Hermione pads up to his four-poster bed and looks down at him with concern.

“No, please,” he pleads. “Not her, anyone but her. Take me instead!” He’s writhing, twisting himself in the bedsheets.

“Aunt Bella!” His voice cracks. “Please,  _ stop _ , you have to stop, you can’t kill her —”

Hermione pauses, her hand halfway to Draco’s. Could he be—

“Aunt Bella,  _ don’t do this,  _ use Crucio on me instead, put away the knife, please!”

Hermione runs her fingers over the familiar scar on her forearm.  _ MUDBLOOD. _ Carved there by Bellatrix Lestrange’s sadistic fingers and that cursed knife in Malfoy Manor. She grabs Draco’s hand with one of her own and uses the other to shake him awake.

“Draco. Draco.  _ Draco! _ ”

He doesn’t respond, still pleading incoherently with his nightmarish aunt.

So she _A_ _ ccio _ ’s a bottle of water and proceeds to dump it on his head.

He’s up and spluttering, looking confused for a moment before looking absolutely furious. “Get out of my room,” he hisses.

“Draco, you had a nightmare. You needed to wake up. Be reasonable.”

“How can I be  _ reasonable _ when I dreamt about my aunt killing you, carving that word into your body over and over again while I watched? How can I be reasonable when you were tortured  _ in my very home _ and my father called the Dark Lord and all I did was  _ stand by and do nothing _ ?!” He’s panting hard, the aftermath of his nightmare still etched into the lines on his face.

“I don’t blame you for any of that, Draco. Bellatrix would’ve turned the Cruciatus on you too if you’d tried to help, and Voldemort would’ve done a lot worse. It’s not your fault.”

“ _ That doesn’t change the fact that it happened! _ ”

“I know. But I need you to know that I’m here. I’m here with you now. I’ll always be here.”

His face falls, and for a moment, he looks so vulnerable it shakes Hermione to her core. Beneath the mask, the anger, the sarcasm, the smirks, the intelligence even, is simply a boy who’s afraid he’ll never be good enough.

“I don’t deserve you.” His words feel like knives after the small silence they have.

“Don’t say that, Draco.”

“It’s true. You’re part of the Golden Trio, a war heroine, destined for great things. You’re  _ good _ . You could be Minister of Magic one day if you desired. And me? I’m a washed-up former Death Eater who can’t even hold himself together to not scream during the night. I’d only tarnish your reputation and drag you down. You deserve better.”

She nearly  _ slaps _ him, she’s so angry. “You  _ do not _ get to make those decisions for me, Draco Malfoy! I am my own person and I am more than simply ‘part of the Golden Trio.’ I’m smart enough to know the consequences of my choices. I don’t give a flying fuck about what anyone thinks and I choose you, Draco. I  _ choose _ you and I need you to grow some balls and choose me too.”

He looks stunned by her tirade. She watches, a little amused despite herself, as his mouth gapes open and closed like a fish. It’s entirely unbecoming, and she loves it.

When he speaks next, it’s so soft Hermione has to lean in close to hear it. “I choose you too. It’s always been you. I’ll always choose you.” His next words are louder and more emphatic. “And I’m sorry I’ve been a right prat the past month.”

She smacks him light-heartedly, relieved. “You have. But it’s part of your brand, I suppose.”

A smile curls the corners of his lips. “Do you mind staying here tonight?”

She nods, crawls in beside him, snuggles in close. “I’d like nothing better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehe loved all the comments you guys left during that last chapter of 'DRACO IS AN IDIOT' (because boys are idiots sometimes, IMO). But I didn't want to make you guys wait too long before the resolution of it (for now), so here it is. Hope you enjoyed!


	11. burning through the hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tea at Malfoy Manor is not what Hermione expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from “i like me better” by lauv

**_Hogwarts, May 1999._ **

“Mother’s asked us to tea.” Draco’s expression is carefully neutral as he looks at Hermione.

“I’m sorry, us?”

“Well, she’s asked  _ you _ to tea. It’s expected that I’ll be there.” His expression is still guarded as he surveys her, waiting for a reaction.

“Does she know we’re…?”

“My mother knows everything, really. I’m not sure  _ how _ she knows, but she owled me and first scolded me for ignoring you last month, then insisted I bring you to tea this weekend.”

As much as the thought of going to tea at Malfoy Manor with the Malfoy matriarch scares her, Hermione can see that Draco’s hopeful. His non-pushiness says more than words ever could. “I’d be happy to,” she says, smiling. “But what do I wear?”

“Oh, don’t worry. Mother also insisted I take you shopping. Her treat,” he added hastily, as she opens her mouth to protest. “She’d be quite offended if you turned it down.”

Hermione shut her mouth again. “I suppose I do need new clothes, since Ginny shrunk all of mine ages ago.”

“Can’t complain about that,” he responds as he eyes her hungrily. “Tell Weasley 'thank you' for me.”

* * *

**_Malfoy Manor, May 1999._ **

**_[[from the prologue]]_ **

_ Malfoy Manor is brighter than she remembers, or maybe it’s simply that she’s not being dragged here by Snatchers desperate to get their money’s worth out of these runaways. She still can’t bring herself to think of the drawing room, with its glass chandelier and echoing screams. Can’t think of Bellatrix and her wild dark hair, her maniacal eyes. _

_ Draco looks at her a little uncertainty, his quicksilver eyes holding something that’s suspiciously close to worry. She knows ‘are you alright’ is on the tip of his tongue and squeezes his hand reassuringly, hoping she appeared more confident than she felt. _

_ “Do you want a tour of the gardens?” he asks instead, his lips curling up into a half-smile. “Mother wants to have tea in the gazebo since it’s lovely out, so we can walk through the gardens on our way there.” _

_ Hermione nods and smiles. She wonders briefly if Narcissa too cannot think of the cavernous room without cringing, can’t scrub (or rather, have her house elves scrub) the marble floors enough to rid it of the stain of a Muggleborn’s blood. If Draco knows what she’s thinking, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he caresses her hand softly with his thumb as he leads her down the path into a beautiful flower garden. _

_ “Mother’s gotten really into gardening, after the war. Says it’s therapeutic. Maybe she feels like she has a kinship with flowers, given her name.” He smirks a little. “But she loves them. I think she simply likes caring for things,” he continues, his features softening. Hermione begins to wonder exactly how the Malfoy family dynamics are. Maybe they aren’t the borderline-evil, unfeeling, fanantical blood-purists that she had thought they were. _

_ Though, given her run-ins with Lucius Malfoy, she was a little skeptical of everything. _

_ She startles as they meander on and a brilliantly colored peacock brushes against her thigh, looking decidedly unfriendly. _

_ Draco laughs, looking down almost affectionately at the bird. “Hello, Jack,” he says. “This is Hermione.” _

_ Hermione glares at him. “You named your bird?” _

_ He shrugs. “You name your cat.” _

_ “That’s different!” _

_ Jack is trying to peck at Hermione and she backs away warily. “I don’t like birds,” she mutters. _

_ Draco laughs again, his eyes widening with mirth. “Hermione Granger, war heroine, crazy Kneazle lover, fearless and brilliant witch, is afraid of birds?” _

_ “I am not afraid of birds. I simply don’t like them,” she argues, dragging him away from the peacock. “I don’t want my dress to get ruined before tea with your mother,” she says primly. _

_ They walk past the lake, thankfully not interrupted by any more peacocks (she learns from Draco that Jack is just one of many peacocks who inhabit the Malfoy estate and she shivers a little). It’s more welcoming than the lake at Hogwarts, so clear that it reflects the sky. _

_ Finally (or maybe too soon?) they come in sight of the gazebo. “Gazebo” seems like an understatement — it’s a beautiful outdoor tearoom, protected by the elements by charms that Hermione can see shimmer just at the corner of her eyes. Narcissa Malfoy cuts a slim figure in the picturesque scene, her sky blue robes curving over her lean body perfectly, her blonde hair pinned back as she waves her wand over the table and plates appear, along with a full tea set. _

_ Narcissa appears to sense the pair as soon as they come close, however, because she turns around with an absolutely beatific smile. “Draco, Hermione, welcome!” She pulls her son into her arms and kisses him on both cheeks in the French manner (Hermione recalls absently that Narcissa’s mother was French) and does the same to Hermione, much to the younger witch’s surprise. _

_ Not in a thousand years did she imagine that she, Hermione Granger, would be here at Malfoy Manor for tea on the arm of Draco Malfoy and being welcomed by Narcissa Malfoy. How things have changed. _

_ “Hermione, how are classes going?” Narcissa asks politely as they sip their strong tea and nibble on the most delicious sandwiches Hermione has ever tasted. _

_ Hermione’s eyes light up at the question; she can’t help herself. She has missed a whole year of school, and despite the strangeness of going at it without Harry and Ron, she’s loved diving back into the schoolwork. Into learning. Into some semblance of normalcy. Launching into an excited recap of everything she’s learning this year, she misses the shared look between mother and son. _

_ Narcissa looks intently at Draco, sees the way his eyes soften when he listens to Hermione speak. It reminds her of Lucius, of the way his whole demeanor would change (still does) around her. Her son tears his eyes away from his witch to meet his mother’s, a lengthy look of understanding passed between clear blue eyes and soft grey ones. _

_ Draco doesn’t need Legilimency to know that his mother approves, despite her deeply pureblood upbringing. He’d always known that his mother simply wants him to be happy, simply wants grandchildren to dote on and take care of. Even if he never knew his aunts and uncles in any capacity (unless you counted crazy Aunt Bella), he had a feeling his mother must be lonely for some familial company. _

_ (He didn’t know that Narcissa cried over Sirius’s death, cried when she heard her estranged niece and her husband had died and left an infant orphaned, cried when she heard Andromeda was now a grandmother and widow and sole caretaker of said infant. He didn’t know how much his mother had hidden behind propriety and closed doors and placating smiles.) _

_ Hermione pauses. “I do apologize! I’ve monopolized the entire conversation with talk of classes. You must be bored to death.” She laughs a little, uncertainty coloring her voice. _

_ Draco squeezes her hand. Narcissa almost beams at her. “Not at all, dear. I do miss Hogwarts a little myself; I had thought of becoming a healer at St. Mungos once…” The older woman looks off into the distance for a moment, her eyes glazing as she remembers a time that seems long, long ago. _

_ Hermione looks curiously at Lady Malfoy, this prim yet strangely welcoming woman who had so easily let her into this proper, pureblood world. Even though the war was over, Hermione had thought that old habits would die much harder than that. _

_ With a start, she realizes why she feels a strange tie of kinship with the woman. It’s the shade of loneliness she sees in Narcissa’s eyes, the longing to see a world that’s better than the one she’s in, the sharp wit and keen mind that the older woman possesses, the unwavering loyalty to her family. _

_ It’s everything Hermione feels, has felt for ages. Her heart clenches as she surveys Narcissa, thinking about how this woman had given everything up for her son, for her husband, had been the one to betray Voldemort and protect her family. And for what? For a society that has shut her out, that spews gossip about them in the papers, even now? _

_ Hermione knows all too well what that feels like. “I’m willing to bet you would’ve made an amazing healer, Lady Malfoy,” she says warmly. _

_ “Oh please! Call me Narcissa.” _

_ Draco looks between his two favorite women, not quite understanding what has passed between them or what Hermione was thinking, but feeling like this was going spectacularly well. _

_ A shadow looms over the sunny table; the sound of a cane clacks against the floor. Everyone looks up to see a familiar figure dressed in black blocking the sunshine, his long blonde hair combed neatly out of his face. _

_ “Hello,” Lucius Malfoy says. “May I join you for tea?” _

* * *

Hermione jumps and nearly spills his tea all over herself. Draco eyes his father warily. Narcissa gives her husband a look, then calls for a house elf to set another spot for him. “Lucius, I do wish you’d tell me you were dropping by,” she says breezily. “I’d have everything ready for you. I didn’t even have Dotty make your favorite sandwiches!”

“My apologies, darling. I was walking around the gardens and spotted you, so I thought I’d say hello. It does get quite boring staying at the Manor all the time.”

If it wasn’t Lucius Malfoy saying that, Hermione would’ve said he sounded almost  _ petulant _ .

“Yes, one year of house arrest is a terrible sentence for a Death Eater who housed the Dark Lord,” Draco drawls.

Both his mother and father glare at him. “Manners, Draco,” Narcissa says. “We have company.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“How are you, Miss Granger?” Lucius asks, finally turning his attention to Hermione.

“I, uh, I’m wonderful, thanks for asking.” She’s stuttering, still in shock at the elder Malfoy saying something civil to her with no hint of snark or ill will behind it.

And she’s woefully at a lack for words. With Narcissa she can talk fairly normally — she feels a strange sense of belonging with the refined older witch, but with Lucius Malfoy? What was she supposed to ask?  _ How’s house arrest going? Are you reading loads of books? I bet the library is nice? Do you regret the time you almost killed me and my friends in the Department of Mysteries? Called anyone a Mudblood recently? _

He seems to take pity on her. “Do you have plans after graduation?” he asks politely, if a little emotionlessly.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione launches into her various thoughts. It’s something she’s given a considerable amount of thought to, and for someone who likes to plan everything so meticulously, she’s torn between too many options. “I always thought I’d go into the Ministry, not as an Auror, but rather in a position where I could help magical creatures like house elves. Or I could get a Mastery of sorts, but there are too many to choose from, and honestly, while I’m fairly good at all the subjects, nothing’s really caught my passion, unlike Draco, who would do so well with a Potion Mastery. I suppose I could maybe teach at Hogwarts, the school needs some new professors, but the thought of being there right after graduation is a little depressing...”

She realizes she’s babbling again, so she takes a hurried sip of her tea. Three pairs of eyes watch her interestedly as she does so.

“I do think you’re too good for all those things, Miss Granger,” Lucius says. “Though I do remember you being particularly fond of house elves…”

She gapes at him.  _ Was that a compliment? And how does he know about S.P.E.W.? _

“Darling, stop scaring the poor girl.” Narcissa swats at him, a decidedly unladylike move that endears her to Hermione even more.

He looks affronted. “I’m being  _ polite _ !”

“What do you think she should do then, Father?” Draco asks, looking a little surprised at himself as the question spills from his mouth.

Lucius shrugs, looking strangely elegant as he does so. “Miss Granger has an affinity for books, does she not? I believe she should write one.”

Now he’s the one who finds three pairs of eyes on him.

“Some of us have to work for a living,” Hermione says before she can stop herself. She claps a hand over her mouth in horror.

Narcissa simply laughs, a sound that sounds strangely like a windchime. “Hermione’s got a point, Lucius.”

“I was thinking Draconian Press could back her.”

“I — excuse me?” Draco asks.

His mother positively  _ beams _ at him. “We saw how much you adored books as a child, so we bought a publishing company and named it after you, so you can invest in as many books and authors as you’d like.”

(Hermione, meanwhile, tries to hide her shock that Draco's parents bought him a _publishing company on a whim_.)

The rest of their conversation turns to books (a safe topic), with Draco promising to show her all of their libraries (of course they would have more than one).

* * *

As the tea ends and Draco leads her inside to see the first of the three libraries, Hermoine doesn’t notice two pairs of eyes following them both inside.

“You’re right, Cissa,” Lucius admits, running a hand over his face. “She’s good for him, as much as I hate to admit it.”

“So you broke all my fine china for nothing?” Narcissa smirks, her grey eyes sparkling.

“I  _ said _ I was sorry.” He sounds petulant again.

“Apology accepted. Though I do know how you can make it up to me…”

It’s his turn to smirk.

“I want him to marry her, Lucius.” Narcissa’s voice is firm and steady as she changes the subject back. Her grey eyes look like steel, her gaze unwavering.

Lucius turns the exact shade of purple that portrait-Severus had imagined all those months ago. “You  _ what? _ ”

“I want Draco to marry Hermione.”

“But she’s a —” He’s spluttering, the purple of his face a very strange contrast to his icy blonde hair.

“A Muggleborn, I know, dear. But hasn’t this war shown you anything? She makes him happy. She’s the brightest witch of her age. And I do so badly want a daughter-in-law who isn’t a simpering idiot. He  _ needs _ her, Lucius.”

Lucius is still holding onto his cane like it’s his lifeline, but his face is steadily turning back to its normal pale shade again. “We can speak about this later. Come, let’s have a walk.”

He offers his hand to his wife, who sighs and stands, smoothing her immaculate dress as she does so. Lucius can’t help but think that if Miss Granger is anything like his Cissa, she  _ will _ be good for Draco, no matter what her blood status is.

How strange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of you were probably expecting something different after the cliffhanger in the prologue!
> 
> I do like to throw a little surprise in there; Lucius isn’t approving of Draco and Hermione at first (it’s hard to undo years and years of pureblood tradition/brainwashing), but Narcissa has had ample time to talk to him about this, allow him to throw his temper tantrums, etc.
> 
> P.S. Hope you enjoyed the lil Lucius/Narcissa moments. I love them.


	12. love is all you owe me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the year brings about a strange sort of peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from "conversations in the dark" by john legend

**_Hogwarts, June 1999._ **

It’s peaceful.

Almost too good to be true, Hermione thinks, as she heads into her N.E.W.Ts. This time last year, Hogwarts was in literal ruins; the whole Wizarding world was on the brink of collapse. Harry had  _ died _ , for Godric’s sake (nevermind the fact that he apparently  _ had _ to, and came back very much alive).

And this feeling of being in love? It’s a deeply strange feeling as well. Unsettling, really. Hermione has never been one to love halfway; it’s the Gryffindor in her, maybe. Not that she’s told Draco so much so in words, but she knows he knows.

At least, she hopes he knows.

Between studying for their N.E.W.Ts and their Head Boy/Girl duties for the end of the year, the couple hasn’t really seen each other as much as they’d like. Draco’s determined to be the highest scorer in Potions (Hermione’s convinced Harry to give her Snape’s old Potion’s textbook, which she has slipped to Draco); Hermione’s trying to be the highest scorer in every other N.E.W.T. (being the Brightest Witch of her age and all).

And McGonagall watches them both a little too closely and a little too knowingly for their liking. Draco could swear he saw Dumbledore  _ winking  _ at him as he passed by.

Despite it all, the nights are where they find solace. Soft conversations in the dark, whispered snippets of their hopes and dreams, sleepy mumbles about their past. Warm arms and deep kisses, soft embraces and passionate lovemaking.

(Hermione has started calling it ‘lovemaking’ in her head, rather than simply ‘having sex.’)

Sometimes Draco feels like his happiness is fragile, balancing on a tenuous string. He’s never quite been  _ this happy _ , never quite felt that he deserved someone as brilliant, capable, passionate, and bloody infuriating as Hermione. Someone who gives him her whole heart, her whole self, and sees him as the man he wishes he could be, rather than the man he thinks he is.

Someone who sees the good in him still.

Narcissa has begun to owl Draco daily, sending her regards to Hermione in each letter.  _ Tell Hermione your Father and I say hi, _ she writes.

_ I’m sending this set of lilac and periwinkle robes for Hermione. _ She encloses said robes, made with silk so fine it seems to have been spun by faeries. Draco’s instantly reminded of Hermione’s dress at the Yule Ball all those years ago, when his heart caught in his throat and he looked around, seeing all the other males have the same reaction that he did.

When he felt the bitter sting of jealousy seeing her walk up to Krum, smile, flirt, dance. He’d burned his Krum poster that night, taking strange solace in seeing the Quidditch player’s face go up in flames.

_ Where’s Hermione spending the summer? Tell her she’s welcome at the Manor anytime. Your father and I would love to have her. _

Draco wonders if it’s true. If his father has somehow gotten over his  _ entire lifetime _ of being a pureblooded elitist and accepted that his son was in love with a Muggleborn witch.

_ We’re holding a Hogwarts graduation party in our garden. We’ve owled the Zabinis, Notts, Parkinsons, and Mr. Potter, but please tell Hermione that she’s invited too, obviously. Enclosed is her invitation. We have a graduation present for her as well. _

By the third week, Draco is quite annoyed. He watches as Hermione smothers a laugh at the Gryffindor table; she meets his eye and winks. She  _ knows _ how he hates getting owls so often, knows it’s his mother. She had been wary at first, refusing to accept Narcissa’s gift, feeling a bit shy at her invitations, but he could tell she didn’t want to offend.

But over time, Draco suspects that Hermione and his mother have been keeping a regular correspondence. How else would she know all these embarrassing stories from his childhood?

_ Remember when you were three and thought you were a real dragon and tried to fly? Your mother was so horrified when you’d sprained your wrist, but your father smiled and told you you were brave, not silly. _

She had whispered that in his ear one night, as they lay sweaty and spent on his bed, limbs sprawled amongst the tangled sheets. He’d shot up, startled, and she laughed uncontrollably at his reaction. He glared; she smiled sweetly; they kissed. "Please don't talk about my father again in bed, Granger," he grumbled.

(Though he _does_ love the memory. It was one of the few times his father had smiled at him before becoming all 'take your duties seriously Draco make me proud blah blah blah' serious.)

_ This is peace,  _ they both think, as the days grow warmer and the sun lingers longer in the sky.

But the thing about peace is…

It never does last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE this fic is far from over!! Think of this as a little interlude...


	13. and if you close your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hogwarts graduation day has arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "pompeii" by bastille

**_Hogwarts, July 1999._ **

Graduation is late this year. It is the first of July, when the heat has just begun to settle deep, coloring the air with a humidity that is stifling and deeply uncomfortable.

The ceremony is outside; many cooling charms have been placed on the perimeter to keep all present a reasonable temperature, but there is only so much cooling charms can do.  Hermione is hot and bothered, but not in the way she likes to be.

Draco, the ice prince as always, raises a blonde eyebrow and smirks. She glares. He must have reptilian blood, that snake, to keep cool in all his graduation robes  _ and _ the bloody heat.

They are seated behind the podium, where McGonagall beams happily at her small group of graduating seventh and eighth years. As the Head Boy and Head Girl and the top of the class, they are due to give speeches.

But first, McGonagall goes teary-eyed, something that neither students nor most of the faculty have seen in a long time.

“I am deeply proud of you all for being brave. For returning to continue your learning in this school, where many of you have fought, lost loved ones, or even been injured yourself. Hogwarts was meant to be a safe place, and you, our students, have done more to keep it safe than we’d ever expected.  I am also proud of the inter-house unity. Hatred and prejudice can cut deep, but I have never seen Slytherins and Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, work together more cohesively than you all have this year.  If Professor Dumbledore were here, I am sure he’d tell you all how proud he is of you too. You are his legacy. You are the future.”

She pauses, looking at the bright, hopeful faces before her. _Too few of them,_ she thinks sadly. _Too few, and they have seen far more than they should've before even turning eighteen._ But she continues on.  “I know the future may seem uncertain, but it always is. And it is now in your hands. Rise, Hogwarts class of 1999, and celebrate your success!”

There is a roar that brings the crowd to their feet, as if this is some international Quidditch game. Hermione sees that the Headmistress’s words are indeed true; she sees Slytherins and Gryffindors embrace each other quite happily, Ginny and Pansy leading the pack with a tight hug.

An interesting twist — her keen eyes spy Ron, sitting a few rows behind Ginny with the rest of the Weasley clan, eyeing Pansy with something that looked a lot like desire.

Hermione has to admit, Pansy has truly grown into her looks. Gone is the pug-nosed, sour-faced Slytherin girl of times past. Pansy’s face has slimmed as she’s aged; the pug-nose now looks more button-like and suits her far more. Her hair, always her best feature, hangs shiny and long behind her back like a sheet of obsidian. Today it is curled for the occasion, done like the old Hollywood movie stars, complementing her dark eyes and dark red lips perfectly.

Oh, Ron is in  _ trouble _ . Ginny notices too and winks at Hermione. Always the matchmaker, that one.

While Hermione’s musing over Ron and Pansy, something else has caught Draco’s eye. He notes with interest that Blaise’s dark head is close to Luna’s white-blonde one… and it looks like their fingers are intertwined? _ Hmm… _ he thinks, a little annoyed that one of his best friends has failed to update him on this new relationship.

Or whatever it was.

Though, to be fair, Draco hasn’t told anyone about him and Hermione. It’s an unspoken secret, one that Ginny and Pansy both haven’t spilled either, match-making gossips as they were.

But playboy Blaise and looney Luna? Strange.

It’s as if Blaise can hear him (Draco wouldn’t be terribly surprised if the boy was a secretly skilled Legimens); he turns his dark eyes to Draco’s light ones.

He looks meaningfully at Draco, then at Hermione, then at Luna.

_ Huh.  _ So Zabini isn’t as obsessed with himself as everyone thinks he is.

Draco inclines his head a fraction of an inch; Blaise seems satisfied. Luna notices this interaction, of course she does, and whispers something to Blaise that looks suspiciously like ‘light Gillywalds around us,’ whatever the hell that was. The blonde witch may be bloody barmy, but Draco has a deep, unspoken respect for her. With her silvery hair, she could almost be taken for one of the Malfoys, if not for her dreamy eyes. Malfoys were never anywhere else but _here_ , in this world, solid in their privilege and standing. Always aware. Always ready. But Draco remembers the long days when Luna had been held prisoner at Malfoy Manor; she had somehow provided more comfort to him than he to her. He thinks of her as a sister almost, not that he'd ever voice that sentiment aloud. He sends Blaise his silent approval.

Interesting, indeed.

Suddenly, it’s Draco’s turn to speak and he stands a little shakily. His speech is capped at a minute, but he can see his parents beaming brightly at him (or rather, can see his mother beaming brightly at him. His father looks impassive as usual, but inclines his head in approval).

He has prepared for this speech for weeks, not because of any fear of public speaking, but because it’s his first and likely only chance to address his peers and their parents as a group. To atone for all the damage his family, the pureblood society, and he had done over the past few years.

“When I first arrived at Hogwarts,” he begins, focusing his eyes on Luna (she’s always been strangely soothing), “I thought I would be best friends with Harry Potter.”

There was a little laugh from the audience. Harry gives a very audible snort.

“I was wrong. Potter has always known his own heart, has always been brave enough to follow the light and make his own choices. To carve his own path. And so he became friends with loyal Weasley and Hermione Granger, the brightest witch Hogwarts has ever known.”

He can practically  _ feel _ Hermione blush from behind him. Weasley looks like someone’s Stunned him — Draco calling him “loyal” is probably the nicest thing a Malfoy has ever said to a Weasley… ever.

“I was jealous, really. Jealous of their friendship. I could always lean on my House, on my friends, but I envied the dedication to doing good the trio had, even when it meant putting their own lives in danger. Even if I would never admit it to anyone else.”

“I was not brave enough during sixth year to choose the light. I was not brave enough to do good by you, my fellow students, and I apologize. Thank you for giving me another chance. Thank you for allowing me to step into the light.”

He nods; the crowd is absolutely silent.

Nothing unexpected, there. Not like he had been expecting raucous applause from these students whom the Death Eaters, his  _ fellow _ Death Eaters, had tortured for an entire year.

As he turns to go back to his seat, a clear clap sounds from the audience. He snaps his head back to see Ginny Weasley standing and clapping, a grin on her face. Hermione and McGonagall are clapping too; like a ripple effect, the rest of the Weasley family, his parents, and House Slytherin have begun to clap as well.

The claps ring clear in the summer air, unstifled by the oppressive humidity. Draco feels his heart swell, feels his eyes tear up (how  _ embarrassing _ ), and as the rest of the Houses start putting their hands together as well, he takes deep breaths in and out to still his heart. Feeling as if this string of good luck is too much to be true, Draco  _ smiles _ (probably the first time most of Hogwarts has ever seen him truly smile) and nods, looking at Hermione.

She beams at him. More happily than Narcissa does. He’s unsure how that’s quite possible; it looks like Hermione’s face is going to split clear in half, her smile is so wide. “Your turn,” he whispers. “Good luck beating that,” he adds, giving her his signature smirk. He knows she loves it.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione smooths her robes and steps up to the podium Draco has just vacated.

“Draco Malfoy gives himself too little credit,” she says, quieting the crowd. “It has been an honor serving with him as Head Girl this year.”

The crowd starts to murmur; Hermione pauses to let them quiet down again.

“Hogwarts was the first place I felt like I truly belonged,” she says, wishing her parents were here.

“As most of you know, my parents are Muggles. Which means I was treated as someone  _ not normal _ when I was younger; the other kids refused to play with me. But at Hogwarts, I could grow. I could learn. I could thrive.” She takes a deep breath, thinking of how far they've come from those bright-eyed first-years they were.

“The past eight years have not been easy on any of us. We’ve lived through a war, through the loss of people that we love dearly—” she pauses, tears filling her eyes at the memory of Fred, of Lupin and Tonks, of Dobby, of Hedwig. Of the children who will grow up not knowing their parents. The loss of her own parents.

Clearing her throat, she continues. “But we have come out stronger on the other side. And where we were once divided, we have united to create a more loving, forgiving, and accepting community. Where there was once hatred and prejudice, there is a little more understanding. It takes time. Everything good does. But we have fought for freedom. For justice. For equality. I know it is hard to shed old ideals, to unlearn things that you may have grown up learning, but the fact that you are trying is beautiful in itself.”

“Like Headmistress McGonagall said, there has been more inter-House unity than there has ever been. I myself, and Harry and Ron too, have been culprits of prejudice. We were taught that Slytherins were evil, were not to be trusted. But I have come to know a Slytherin this year who is good, who is trustworthy, who is pure of heart, who  _ tries _ . Who is brave.”

She can practically  _ see _ Draco’s pale cheeks turn a very noticeable shade of red behind her.

“We all have much to learn, much more to grow. But I am honored to be part of this new future that we are building. I am so proud to call you my classmates and to have called Hogwarts my home. Thank you to all my professors, my classmates, and my friends. I will never forget the times I had here.”

People are wiping their eyes; Harry has taken off his glasses and blinks rapidly. Ron looks like he’s turning magenta with the effort not to cry, though he hollers, “That’s what I’m talking about, ‘Mione!” before she glares at him. Ginny gives her a long whistle, sticking her fingers in her mouth in a decidedly unladylike manner that makes Hermione grin and Molly look mortified.

Narcissa Malfoy is delicately dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief and Lucius Malfoy looks… almost approving?

_ Impossible. _

To Hermione's even greater shock, the Slytherins are the first to get on their feet and clap, and like a wave, the clapping rolls through the space once again, echoing the sound people had made for Draco.  As Hermione steps back, she’s crying herself. Her fingers find Draco’s as she sits, their hands hidden by their billowing robes. She clutches his tightly; he holds hers just as tight.

Together. Moving into a new future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not sure why, but I cried SO HARD writing their speeches. okay, just having all the feels here. I also have zero idea what a Hogwarts graduation ceremony looks like (logistically and also just literally by looks), so I took some liberty here :) hope you enjoyed!


	14. are you death or paradise?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dangerous party crashers arrive at the Malfoys’ graduation party and everyone must face the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one, with multiple POVs throughout the chapter, but an important one as we get a lil sneak peek/backstory into the side (i.e. not Draco or Hermione) characters.
> 
> title from "no time to die" by billie eilish

**_Malfoy Manor, July 1999_ **

The next evening is the graduation celebration at the Malfoy’s; something that was meant to be a garden party had somehow blossomed into a full-on post-graduation ball.

Narcissa Malfoy does not do anything short of extraordinary, and she has truly outdone herself this time.

It seems like the entirety of Hogwarts, or perhaps the entirety of the Wizarding World, was invited. People are milling about in their finery, glad for the chance to break out of their humdrum lives and dress up in clothes they hadn’t worn in years or outfits they were too eager to find the excuse to purchase. For a moment, it feels like a return to normalcy, but in fact, it's the first time that outsiders (other than one Hermione Granger, of course) have stepped foot inside the Manor since Voldemort's unwelcome stay there.

* * *

**_Hermione_ **

Faerie lights drip from every surface outside, hanging from the tall hedges of the maze to the beautiful trees. Hermione has never seen the Manor by night, and it strangely seems more enchanting.

The beautiful marble inside still holds true, but the ballroom is now in use, a popular band playing in the background while lords and ladies and everyone else twirl in circles like well-rehearsed flowers. There is a large bar by the side, manned by a bartender that looks so much like Tonks that Hermione has to pause for a second to breathe and remind herself that  _ no, Nymphadora Tonks is dead _ . The bartender gives her a lusty wink as she catches Hermione looking for two beats too long, and raises the glass she’s pouring for an elderly gentleman as if to say  _ cheers _ .

Hermione thinks that maybe Narcissa misses the niece she’s never gotten to know.

The two women had been dress shopping earlier, despite Hermione’s protests that surely Lady Malfoy must be too busy preparing for the party. But no, Narcissa had answered, she’d finished all the preparations  _ ages _ ago. All that needed to be done was the actual execution, and she trusted Draco to watch over the house elves as they completed it.  _ My husband is  _ not _ to be trusted to watch over the house elves,  _ the older woman had confided with a smirk.  _ His attention to domestic and artistic detail is sadly lacking. _

It turned out that “dress shopping” also did not involve them  _ going _ anywhere other than the walk-in closet in a luxurious bedroom next to Draco’s.

Hermione had gaped while Narcissa threw open the doors fairy godmother-style, revealing a closet full of beautiful pastel dresses made in gauzy fabrics, each more breath-taking than the last. “I did a little shopping earlier too... to prepare,” Narcissa admitted almost bashfully. “I’ve always wanted a daughter to dress up…”

The briefest whisper of a memory stirred in Hermione’s consciousness, a hushed conversation between Molly and Arthur about the Malfoys’ inability to conceive more than one child.  _ It’s probably why they hate us so much, dear,  _ Arthur had murmured sadly, trying to placate his fuming wife.  _ We are blessed with so many children, while they struggled so hard to have one. _

When Hermione had come back to the present, Narcissa had her back to her, pulling out a dress that was jade green. It was strapless, with diaphanous sleeves that draped just off her shoulders. It cinched in tight at the waist, then flowed out from there, skimming over her curves in a tasteful yet mysterious way.

“It’s beautiful,” Hermione had breathed, awestruck.

Narcissa had frowned. “Just beautiful? Maybe this is not the one. How about —”

“No, more than beautiful. It’s  _ perfect _ .”

Narcissa looked a little put out at not getting to see Hermione try on more than one dress. So Hermione had indulged Lady Malfoy, allowing her to pick out a blush pink dress, a pale lavender dress, and a dress that truly looked like the sunset had spilled all over it.

She knew that the green one was going to be the one, however.

Narcissa had agreed. They’d spent the next hour in the bathroom — Narcissa had a  _ lot  _ of practice with curly hair, thanks to her sisters — and Hermione came out of it with both a tamed, yet beautifully curly mane, and useful tips and tricks in her metaphorical sleeve.

Surprisingly, Narcissa preferred to do makeup the Muggle way — with actual products applied by hand to her face — rather than with makeup charms. “It’s more like art this way,” she had explained to a slightly-shocked Hermione. “And more precise. I like things to be precise.”

Ah, a woman after her own heart.

Hermione thinks about all this, this lonely woman who craves a daughter so much, whose family was torn apart by Voldemort and light and dark long before she and Draco were born, as she stands in the ballroom, waiting for her drink.

There always seems to be more than meets the eye with the Malfoys.

Finally, the bartender turns to her. “Whaddya want, love?” the girl asks.

“Gin and tonic, please.”

“Would’ve taken you for a whiskey kind of girl,” a voice says behind her, and Hermione spins around to see a grinning Draco Malfoy.

He’s in formal robes that look suspiciously like a three-piece Muggle suit, dark grey trimmed with a hint of jade green that matches her dress.  _ How did he — _

“Mother had a feeling,” he says, answering her unspoken question. He gestures toward her dress. “You look beautiful.”

_ “Just _ beautiful?” she teases, repeating his mother’s words back to him.

“You look absolutely perfect, breath-taking, awe-inspiring, Hermione Granger.” His eyes darken so much that she swallows hard and has to resist the urge to snog him right then and there.

“Ahem, if you two are done flirting, here’s your gin and tonic, Miss Granger,” the bartender says with a knowing wink. “And here’s your whiskey, neat, Mr. Malfoy.”

They both nod in thanks and look away, a little embarrassed, a little pleased.

* * *

**_Harry_ **

Despite being the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, blah blah blah, Harry Potter is  _ not _ graceful and does  _ not  _ enjoy dancing. At all.

But here he is, in the middle of the Malfoy’s grand-as-hell ballroom, spinning Ginny Weasley around in circles.

Nope, not quite accurate. He is swaying somewhat in beat to the music with his hands firmly clasped around her waist, inhaling her flowery scent. It’s the only type of dancing he’ll do, this excuse to get this close to her in public. She looks absolutely stunning tonight, her black dress setting off her long red hair wonderfully. Said hair, which is normally pin-straight, has been curled in loose waves and cascade tantalizingly down her back.

He noticed earlier that night (i.e. as soon as he saw her and she did a pleased little spin for him because goddamn, did she love that dress), that the black dress was not only curve-hugging, but also exposed most of her back, leaving it delightfully bare. It's a little risque for pureblood society (not that Harry knew that, but Ginny had informed him so with a wicked grin), and Harry has never been so glad that his girlfriend has a rebellious streak.

Now, he’s ghosting his fingers on her bare skin as they dance, still a little disbelieving that they have come to this. Even after an entire war, even after he killed The One Who Has No Nose, he’s still in awe of this strong, vibrant, vicarious girl who didn’t take any of his shit. Who loved him back.

“I’ve been drafted by the Holyhead Harpies,” she says, breaking him out of his trance.

“Congrats, Gin!” he says. He does not doubt his girlfriend’s talents, but a little part of him mourns the thought that they will never play Quidditch at Hogwarts again, that he will never feel the energy of the crowd pulsing beneath him as he scans the sky for the ever elusive Golden Snitch.

“We can still play recreationally during my off season,” she grins, seeming to understand how he’s feeling. “Though if you want to build your own recreational Quidditch team, I suggest asking Malfoy. I have a feeling he’s been missing Quidditch since sixth year.”

Harry gape at his girlfriend, who tosses her hair and gives him a long smile. "Now kiss me," she orders, and he does just that.

* * *

_**Ron** _

“Bloody hell,” Ron gasps. Thankfully, it’s  _ not _ for the same reason as the last time he was in dress robes. There was no  _ obliviate _ that could make him forget those horrendous dress robes Mum had made him wear (and was _convinced_ looked utterly charming on him. That woman had been barmy).

How he even got Padma to go with him was a veritable mystery.

But this time, he’s gasping  _ bloody hell _ because Pansy Parkinson had just walked in with his sister and  _ blimey  _ did she look stunning.

He sees Harry make a beeline for Gin out of the corner of his eye, but he’s too distracted to even think about it too much. Instead, his eyes are glued on Pansy, on that  _ dress  _ of hers.

It’s a deep blood red, almost like the burgundy of Gryffindor, but a few shades darker. It leaves her shoulders bare and hugs her body all the way to her calves, where it flares out, giving him a strange impression of the mermaids he’d seen in the Great Lake fourth year. Though Pansy, obviously, is much prettier.

Her lips are painted in the same shade as her dress and her black hair, grown out from its signature bob, is pulled up out of her face. She seems to be looking for something… or someone? He’s wondering who it is when he feels his feet propelling himself toward her of their own volition. “Ginny,” he grumbles, shooting a glare at his younger sister, who blows him a kiss over Harry’s shoulder. He forgets how powerful his little sister is, and promises himself to get her back for that little wandless charm of hers.

“Hi,” he says awkwardly, finding himself right in front of Pansy Parkinson.

She says nothing for a bit, simply surveys him with those dark eyes of hers. He has the distinct impression she’s staring into his soul. Or maybe trying to figure out the best way to kill him. Unclear on which one it is. After a few beats, she smiles slowly, revealing even white teeth. “Hello, Weasley.”

“Erm, you look beautiful,” he offers.

Her smile widens. “Thank you, handsome. Wanna dance?” She reaches for his hand, knowing he won’t say no, and leads them to the dance floor.

* * *

_**Astoria** _

The air feels stifling, the gauzy light blue dress too tight on her bodice. Her mum had insisted that she wear a semi-corset, despite her protests that no one had done so for centuries. “Stop fidgeting, Astoria,” her mum says, blue eyes narrowed. “It’s unladylike.”

“Yes, Mum,” Astoria answers softly, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. If this is what Daphne had to deal with every time they attended a social event, no wonder her older sister ran away to America.

She studies the room instead, taking in the brightly colored dresses and the perfectly tailored dress robes. The spinning couples on the dance floor are giving her a slight headache; she’d give anything for a drink and a chance to get away from her mum.

“You know, Draco Malfoy would make a good husband. Even though Lucius has quite fallen from grace, Narcissa and Draco managed to salvage their family name a little by their actions toward Potter. And their Gringotts vault is unparalleled…” As her mother rambles on, her eyes glued hungrily to the Malfoy heir, Astoria’s thoughts travel elsewhere.

She did always have a thing for tall, arrogant Slytherins (it had practically been  _ bred _ into her), but Draco reminded her too much of her own father for her tastes. There  _ was _ another boy who caught her eye, though…

“Lady Greengrass.” As someone pays their respects to her mother, Astoria begins to draw her thoughts back to the present, only to meet twinkling brown eyes bent over her hand.

“Hello, Astoria,” Theodore Nott says. “Care to dance?”

* * *

_**Blaise** _

The ladies have him surrounded like bees to honey. Typically, Blaise wouldn’t mind (he  _ knows _ his charm, after all), but tonight he’s searching for someone else.

He finds her chatting with Professor Sprout, her dreamy blue eyes ringed with smoky liner. She’s dressed in a burnt orange dress, flowers looped through her hair and mini mirrors dangling from her ears.

“The Nargles don’t like them, you see,” she says, sliding into his mind with Legilimency as easily as she always has.

Blaise grins — that’s his Luna — and apologizes to the girls hovering around him. “ _ I  _ love them,” he says, appearing right in front of the only girl he wants to spend tonight with.

* * *

**_Narcissa & Lucius_ **

“He looks so happy, dear,” Narcissa says, beaming at Hermione and her son. The pair have moved to the dance floor, to Narcissa’s delight, and are proving to be quite the pair. She  _ knew _ all those years of dance lessons she’d forced Draco to take would pay off. And it would surprise her greatly to find Hermione Granger to be less than great at something, dancing included.

Her husband feigns boredom, but she knows Lucius too well to be fooled. “Hmm,” is all he says, sipping his glass of whiskey.

If she were to categorize his body language, she’d say he’s looking  _ uncomfortable. _ “What, darling?” she presses.

“I suppose the two of them appearing together would help our family name,” he muses.

She sends him a side-eyed  _ look _ . “Think of Draco’s happiness, Lucius, not just the Malfoy name.”

But before she can say anything else, the glass chandelier explodes, sending razor-sharp shards all over the dance floor. Screams pierce the air as  _ protegos _ are thrown up, shielding those who were fast enough to grab their wands but not move fully. The lights flicker and all of sudden, the entire manor goes pitch black.

“Lucius?” Narcissa murmurs fearfully, but her voice is still even and controlled.

“I have no idea,” he answers darkly. She can feel him pull out his wand and take a deep breath of preparation.

All of a sudden, the manor is illuminated again, but this time there are three familiarly hooded figures standing where the chandelier had fallen. They raise their wands and shout; the Dark Mark is reflected in each and every one of the manor’s numerous mirrors.

Silence reigns for a moment as the partygoers survey the Death Eaters. Lucius’s eyes narrow dangerously —  _ how  _ dare _ they attack me and my guests in my own home?  _ — before he raises his wand to cast an unmasking charm.

“Expelliarmus!” Potter shouts (always going for that charm, that one), and three sets of wands fly out of the masked party-crashers’ hands, but not before one of them grabs Miss Granger, drawing a knife to her throat in a disturbingly familiar manner.

“No!” Lucius hears someone scream, before realizing it is his son.

With a start, he understands why this seems so familiar. Because in another room in this very house, his sister-in-law once held a knife to this girl’s throat, before torturing her and carving her mark into her flesh.

_ Not my family, not again,  _ he thinks adamantly, not realizing that he has categorized Miss Granger as his family.

“No!” Draco shouts again, pointing his wand at the Death Eater.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” the Death Eater drawls. He must be using a masking spell on his voice, because Lucius can’t recognize who it is. “Young Malfoy. I always knew you were too weak to stand up to the Dark Lord’s ideals, for the path he had chosen for you. Always knew you were a traitor, that you’d had a thing for filthy Mud—”

“ _Not this time!_ Say another word and I’ll blast your brains out.” The rest of the room is still frozen, Potter staring shell-shocked at the Death Eater who holds Miss Granger.

“No, little Draco. No, you won’t. Because before you can even begin to  _ say _ a spell, I’ll slit her throat.” To prove his point, he presses the knife a little closer to Hermione’s throat and the room watches as a small drop of blood seeps out.

Draco’s beginning to panic, Lucius can see that. But he can also see his son getting angry, the infamous Malfoy temper brewing dangerously underneath his skin. Surprisingly, he sees Malfoy meet Potter and Miss Weasley’s eyes for a brief moment before looking intently back at Miss Granger and her captor.

“Lucius,  _ do something _ ,” Narcissa urges, so softly that Lucius wonders if he’s imagined it.

But before he can give her a slight shake of his head, Draco lowers his wand, casting a nonverbal, wandless  _ Accio _ on the Death Eater’s knife. It’s so strong that the knife flies out of his hand and embeds itself into the wall behind Draco. At the same time, Potter and Miss Weasley have cast  _ Petrificus Totalus _ on the two Death Eaters; Draco takes immense pleasure in shouting _stupefy!_ at Miss Granger's former captor. As they fall to the ground in the body bind, Lucius hears Narcissa let out a long breath of relief.

Hermione collapses gasping into Draco’s arms as the crowd rushes to unmask these intruders and send them to Azkaban where they belong.


	15. your lion's heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Malfoys, Draco, and Hermione deal with the aftermath of the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "scars" by james bay.

**_From the previous chapter:_ ** _ Hermione collapses, gasping, into Draco’s arms, as the crowd rushes to unmask these intruders and send them to Azkaban where they belong. _

* * *

_**Hermione** _

Hermione feels numb. She knows there’s still blood dripping out of the cut on her neck, knows Draco’s arms are around her protectively, that he’s stroking her hair, but her mind and body have shut down.

_ Not again not again not again.  _ She is  _ anything _ but a helpless witch, but for the second time, she’s been held at knifepoint by a bloody Death Eater. Taking slow breaths, she gradually begins to calm down, taking in her surroundings. She’s not okay, far from it, but for now, she needs to concentrate. Needs to be present.

Lucius has conjured silver chains from Godric-knows-where (the Malfoy dungeons, perhaps? She shudders thinking of it) and binds their prisoners tightly. The guests are almost in a frenzy, out for blood as they unmask the three Death Eaters in their midst.

As they whip the masks off, three familiar (to Draco, at least) faces come into view: Antonin Dolohov, Augustus Rookwood, and Walden McNair.

Those three bodies had not been recovered after the Battle of Hogwarts, nor had they been found alive to be rounded up and sent to Azkaban. Where they were hiding, no one knew. And why they had decided to crash the Malfoys’ graduation party and reveal themselves now was anyone’s best guess.

Narcissa places a soft hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Take care of her, Draco. You two can stay in your suite for tonight if she feels comfortable.” She looks at Hermione kindly, sadly. “I’m so sorry that this has happened twice in our home, Hermione. I promise that these men will be brought to justice.”

Hermione nods mutely, then allows Draco to side-along Apparate them to his suite.

* * *

_**Lucius & Narcissa** _

The higher-ups at the Ministry who have been invited are shouting at the Malfoys. “He allowed this to happen! Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater…”

“I thought the wards were so strong, no one could get in… there’s no way those three could’ve gotten in without him knowing…”

“He must’ve not liked his son being with a Muggleborn witch…”

“Pureblood scum…”

Narcissa is too well-bred to react to these statements, but she can sense her husband stiffen and scowl angrily at the slanderous words. She looks up to see Harry Potter pointing his wand at her husband, his glasses slightly askew and his green eyes bright with fury. “What. Happened.” It’s not a question.

“I have no idea, Mr. Potter,” Lucius says coolly, with a hint of a sneer that seems to be his default when speaking to the young Potter boy. “I did not invite them into my home, despite popular opinion.”

“And what do they mean, about Malfoy and Hermione?” He looks hurt now and more than a little confused. Lucius sees little Miss Weasley at Potter’s side. Something in her eyes tells him that she knows more than she’s letting on. She’s always been a bright one; he feels a strange tinge of remorse at leaving the Dark Lord’s diary in her cauldron all those years ago.

“That is my son and Miss Granger’s business, not yours.”

“Hermione’s my friend!”

Miss Weasley drags him away (quite literally); Lucius fights the urge to rub his hand over his face in frustration.  _ Bloody Dolohov. He always was the craziest, most bloodthirsty of us all, save for Bella. Probably because he doesn’t have his own family to protect. And now he’s ruined everything. _

* * *

_**Draco** _

The Death Eaters have been transported to Azkaban. His father has sent a house elf to tell him the news, not wanting to intrude on his son’s privacy this late at night. Even with this knowledge, Draco paces.

He’s done all he can think of — run a warm bath for Hermione, give her a calming draught, snuggle beside her as she falls asleep (with the help of a special potion he’s been brewing for a while now, a variation on Dreamless Sleep) — and now his thoughts are getting the best of him. So he paces.

She’s not safe around him. Even if these Death Eaters are the last of it, she’ll never be safe from people in pureblood society who would hate to see a pureblood, a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the Lord Black and the scion Malfoy, with a Muggleborn. The pureblood aristocracy has been built on lies and subterfuge, on poison and backhanded dealings, and it is one that he does not want to expose Hermione to.

He knows that his mother would never allow any harm to come to Hermione, but for a moment in the ballroom, he had been suspicious of his father. His father, who had always been so imposing with his cane and his frosty demeanor, who had looked down upon Muggleborns as much as anyone else in the Dark Lord’s inner circle, who hadn’t batted an eye at Hermione being tortured.

But then he looked at his father, really  _ looked _ , for a moment before leaving with Hermione, and he saw that his father was just as shocked as he was at the unwelcome intrusion. Was it possible that his father had changed?

This was the man who had allowed his Muggle Studies professor to be tortured on their dining room table and brutally murdered right in front of his eyes, who had attacked Potter and crew in the Department of Mysteries and been sent to Azkaban for it.

This was the man who had essentially allowed the Dark Lord to possess an eleven-year-old during her first year at Hogwarts and who had been so angry at Dobby at that year’s ensuing events that he ordered the poor house elf to punish himself (his mother had been  _ furious _ at that one; Draco remembers his father sleeping in a spare bedroom for a week).

But if there is anything that the past few years have taught him, that his parents have taught him, is that family  _ always _ comes first for the Malfoys. And Hermione is part of the family now; Draco can feel the ancestral magic of the Malfoys awakening in him as it acknowledges his bond, his feelings. His father cannot refute that, even if he wants to.

For a Malfoy, falling in love is more than a mere act of an arranged marriage with the most suitable bride. The ancestral line has never been able to produce more than one son, one heir, so it is imperative that it must be with the correct person. It’s a bond that Draco has felt growing since the first time Hermione was at the manor, tortured right in front of his eyes. It’s a bond that he’s only briefly heard his father talk about.  _ You’ll know, my son, when you see her. And if she ever comes to harm in your presence, every fibre of your being will move to protect her. At all costs. _

Self-preservation had won out the first time, but he was not going to let anything stand in the way of protecting her the second. Even though the Death Eaters were gone, the anxiety pulses in his veins still, humming along with the reawakened magic.

“Draco?” she murmurs, lifting her head and finding the space next to her empty.

“Yes?” he rushes over, strokes her hair.

“Come back to bed,” she mumbles, reaching for him in a way that’s strangely childlike. He nods, crawls in, holds her close. She is here. She is his. She is safe.

* * *

**_Lucius & Narcissa_ **

The Floo call is not unexpected. Lucius and Narcissa have been waiting for this since they sent the three prisoners along, have been pacing downstairs while their son is wearing out the upstairs floorboards in the same manner.

“What are we going to do?” Narcissa whispers, dismay clear in her blue eyes. Lucius is grateful for a moment that he gets to see this version of her, the feelings and insecurities and worries she keeps so carefully hidden from the rest of the world.

“I’ll be okay, Cissa,” he murmurs, pulling her close and stroking her platinum hair. “We’ll be okay. We always are.”

He can practically  _ see _ her thinking, putting that brilliant mind of hers to work. Few know this, but out of the two Malfoys, his Cissa is the planner, the mastermind behind their movements. The times he has acted alone have been the times that nearly have caused their family to burn and crash to the ground.

_ Like joining the Death Eaters. Like trying to resurrect Him and gain his favor by way of the Weasley girl. _

“Lucius, we cannot rely on Mr. Potter’s testimony to vouch for us this time. Though we both know this had nothing to do with us, the rest of the world only sees us as Muggle-haters and followers of the Dark Lord. Allow them to put you under Veristatum if they wish — we have nothing to hide.”

“And about Draco and Miss Granger?”

Narcissa sighs. She wants her son to have his privacy — there was so little of that these days — but she knows that they must keep the family together first. “The way Draco behaved at the party… most people likely know what’s happening between him and Hermione anyways. We need to prove that you — we — are innocent.”

He nods, bends his gold head over her blonde one, and presses a soft kiss on her soft hair. “As you wish.”

They have left the Floo open to the Ministry per one of Lucius’s house arrest rules, and Kingsley Shacklebolt and two Aurors step through now. “Lucius, Narcissa.” The Aurors say nothing, but if their glares were Unforgiveables, both Malfoys would be dead right now.

“What brings you here, Minister?” Narcissa asks sweetly, calmly. Despite the late-night, not-unexpected intrusion.

The Minister of Magic looks almost sorry as he says his next words: “We’re here to arrest your husband.”

Lucius nods and allows the Aurors to secure him with magical handcuffs and take possession of his wand. As they lead him back to the fireplace, he keeps his head held high. With a final look at Narcissa, he disappears.

As the green flames take her husband away, Narcissa hears his voice in her head:  _ I love you, Cissa. Protect our family. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with the "magical Malfoy bond" - i.e. doesn't exist in canon but I like the idea. The three Death Eaters were ones that were actually not accounted for (according to... well, the internet lol) after the battle.
> 
> Their reveal comes now, but their intentions come later...


	16. bring me the dawn (interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Malfoy and Hermione?” Harry repeats numbly, incredulously. He faintly hears Ron shouting in the background, something like ‘Fraternizing with the enemy!’
> 
> Taking a brief drama break for some Golden Trio + Malfoy time. In which Harry + Ron finally confront Malfoy + Hermione about their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from “need the sun to break” by james bay

**_Hermione and Draco’s flat, August 1999_ **

“Malfoy and Hermione?” Harry repeats numbly, incredulously. He faintly hears Ron shouting in the background, something like ‘ _ Fraternizing with the enemy!’ _ and Hermione responding, ‘ _ He’s not the enemy, Ronald, the war is OVER.’  _ But his best friends’ voices pale in comparison to the ringing in his ears.

He supposes it’s not quite  _ shocking _ ; he knows even as he tried to get Ron and Hermione together that his two best friends are too different to ever be happy together. Hermione needs someone as intellectual as her; while Ron tries and appreciates her intelligence, he truly cannot get excited over the same things Hermione gets excited for, and Hermione deserves someone who will.

Harry just never thought it’d be that git Malfoy.

Even though Malfoy had changed the course of the battle, had thrown Harry his wand, ultimately allowing him to defeat Voldemort, even though Harry had testified at his trial… it didn’t mean that Malfoy was suddenly  _ a good person. _

Besides, Harry still hasn’t quite forgiven Malfoy for breaking his nose. He winces a little now, remembering Malfoy’s cold sneer as he stomped on Harry’s face, covering him back up with the Invisibility Cloak, and leaving him on the Hogwarts Express.

There was certainly no love between the two of them. Not from the start, when Harry saw Malfoy waiting to get measured for his robes, looking like the entitled little prat he was. Not when he introduced himself again with all the pomp an eleven-year-old could muster, then sneered at Ron’s robes. Now when he called Hermione a mudblood (though neither of them had known what it meant at the time). Not when he bullied Neville, competed against him for the Snitch, tormented Harry for ages, let the bloody Death Eaters into Hogwarts, and practically killed Dumbledore.

No, Malfoy was not a good person.

But he sees a strange gleam of Sirius in Malfoy’s smile, and for a moment, Harry misses his godfather so fiercely his heart feels like it’s going to wrench into two. He remembers that Malfoy is Lord Black now, that Narcissa Malfoy and Sirius Black were cousins who loved each other once upon a time, that Sirius had told him stories of their school days ( _ did you know your dad had the biggest crush on my cousin Narcissa?  _ he’d teased Harry, only for Harry to cover his ears and gag). He wonders what it would’ve been like, if his parents and Sirius were alive, if Voldemort had never existed in the first place, if he and Malfoy would’ve been friends.

No, he thinks, Malfoy was a spoiled brat then and Voldemort or not, nothing would’ve changed it. But the very thought allows him to see Malfoy in a new light, and he sees how his eyes follow Hermione around, sees the way he  _ listens _ to her, truly listens, something that Ron (and even Harry himself, if he were to be completely honest) didn’t do as often as they should.

“Harry! Harry?” A hand waves in front of his face and he startles.

“Are you okay, mate?” Ron asks worriedly. “Did Hermione break you?”

Hermione glares. “Shut up, Ronald.”

It seems the two of them have come to a truce while he was lost in his own thoughts. He looks up to see Malfoy still standing, still well and alive, and assumes that no hexes were thrown either.

Harry sighs. “Yes, I was just thinking.”

Malfoy’s brow creases. “Thinking? I didn’t know you could think.”

Hermione smacks him, Ron leaps out of his chair, and Harry surveys Malfoy slowly.

“You knew.”

Malfoy smirks now. “Of course I  _ knew _ . You think I believed that Goyle could read? That he suddenly  _ had _ the same glasses as the great Harry Potter? It certainly wasn’t a fashion trend at, believe me. Though I’m impressed you two could brew Polyjuice during second year.” He pauses, looks at Hermione. “I have a feeling you didn’t brew it though, Potter.”

Ron looks between the three of them; Harry can practically see him putting the pieces together in his head.

A short laugh bursts from Harry, surprising them all, himself included. “That  _ was _ kind of funny, Malfoy. ‘Reading? I didn’t know you could  _ read,’ _ he mimics.

Hermione looks confused. “Where were  _ you _ ?” Malfoy asks her, his brow creasing. “Surely you didn’t let Potter and Weasley into the Slytherin dungeons unchaperoned.”

At this, Harry and Ron burst into a veritable  _ fit  _ of laughter, while Hermione stands up, hands on her hips a la Molly Weasley.

She glares; they snicker, but quietly enough that she sits down. “We don’t talk about that,” she tells Draco stiffly.

One blonde eyebrow raises at her, followed by a pair of puppy dog grey eyes. “Ugh, fine,” she relents. “So I was  _ supposed _ to go with them, but it turns out Millicent Bulstrode has a cat…”

A stray snicker escapes from Ron and Hermione stops short. “You are walking on  _ very _ thin ice, Ronald Weasley.” Turning back to Draco, who looks like a child waiting for storytime at kindergarten, she continues. “And Polyjuice Potion isn’t supposed to work on animals, you see.”

“And?” he encourages. “I assume it didn’t just  _ not work _ , or else Potter and Weasley wouldn’t be having hysterics right now.”

“ _ She had a tail!” _ Ron cackles before Harry claps a hand over the redhead’s mouth.

Draco’s mouth falls open for a second before he starts laughing too, despite the angry-displeased-but a little amused look on Hermione’s face. “Oh… I always knew there was a reason you and McGonagall got along so well,” he managed.

As his laughter turns into a more appropriate chuckle, Hermione’s look softens. “I suppose it  _ is _ quite funny, in retrospect,” she admits. “But you lot didn’t have to live with having a tail and ears and whiskers.”

At that, the four of them grin, looking at each other in camaraderie. For that moment, they forget that they are three Gryffindors and a Slytherin who fought on opposite sides of the war. For that moment, they are simply Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Draco, four friends who manage to have a laugh despite all the horrors they have endured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I don’t think Ron + Hermione work together, I do think Ron would be a good friend (after the initial WTF moment). And I love Harry taking his time to process, but ultimately being an understanding and good friend. Because we all love a Harry/Hermione friendship!! (Or at least… I do lol).


	17. loving you had consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius deals with the consequences of his nonactions, Draco, Narcissa, and Hermione make plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from “consequences” by camilla cabello

**_Azkaban, August 1999_ **

Despair.

The entire prison, no — the entire island, reeks of it.

Despair crawls on the grimy prison cell stones like black mold, running insidious fingers over the inhabitants like the relentless, unavoidable spiders. It creeps atop your skin, searching for an entry, a moment of weakness, or perhaps just biding its time until it can seep through your skin.

Once there, it makes its way to your heart like a poison. Slow, deadly. You don’t see it coming until it’s gotten you, until your heart stops beating altogether, your mind and spirit broken.

Despair is in the air here at Azkaban, filling your lungs with every breath you take. Every breath you wished you didn’t have to take.

Lucius isn’t quite sure if it’s the Dementors that make this bloody prison so terrible, or if it's the location in the middle of the North Sea. Maybe it’s the very fact that it’s a prison — and Salazar help him, he’s been here more often than a Malfoy should be.

He suspects it’s a combination of all those factors.

As he surveys his grim surroundings, Lucius supposes he should be grateful. After all, they did give him his very own cell. Not that it’s cleaner than any of the others, mind you, but he’d rather not be near any of his former Death Eater “friends.”

No, that would not do.

The only thing that keeps him semi-sane is the thought of Cissa and Draco and even Miss Granger, the knowledge that they will do anything to bring him back home.

Or at least, he hopes. Despair has already sunk underneath his fingernails like the dirt he so much abhors, twisting his thoughts into fears.

Maybe his family thinks they’ll be better off without him. Considering he was the one that got them into the whole mess with the Dark Lord, he can’t really blame them. Either way, he finds solace in the knowledge that they are  _ safe _ , that the last of the Death Eaters (himself included, he supposes) have been rounded up and are currently waiting out their fate in this blasted prison.

Lucius sits, stands, paces, sleeps. He keeps track of the days by plucking a long, silvery blonde hair from his head and tying it around the leg of the bed every time they ring the morning bell. He waits, hopes, believes.

After all, the third time’s the charm, isn’t it?

* * *

**_Malfoy Manor, August 1999_ **

In a room far, far away from the cold stone cells of Azkaban, Narcissa paces. Her face remains impassive as ever, but she’s picked up the bad habit from her husband and son.

Draco notices the minute changes in his mother, things that happen every time his father is locked up. She’s lost weight, her high cheekbones more pronounced than ever, her bones frail and almost birdlike. He makes a mental note to ask the house elves to keep an eye on her at dinner, to make sure she eats.

Hermione grips his hand reassuringly, and he finds comfort in her very touch. It feels freeing, strangely, now that Potter and Weasley and his parents know about them. He relishes being able to touch her whenever he likes, to curl his fingers around hers, to play with her soft brown hair, to kiss her whenever he feels like. They’ve finally moved past the stolen moments in empty classrooms and hidden corridors, and although a part of him liked the intrigue of an illicit romance, he’s ultimately glad to be here with his witch. Proud.

“Narcissa, please — what can we do to help?” Hermione looks up at the woman she’s coming to see as a second mother, her brown eyes dark and earnest.

The older woman stops her pacing and sits down in an armchair, as graceful as ever. Smoothing back her silvery hair, she sighs. “The Ministry won’t give me any information. I told Lucius that he must allow them to use Veristatum on him so they see the truth, but I have a feeling they’ve simply deposited him in Azkaban and are deciding what to do with him at the moment. He will, at least, have a trial.”

Hermione’s eyes narrow at the thought of Lucius Malfoy in Azkaban, and Draco can’t quite tell if she’s enraged or approving.

“We’ll have to try and get the trial pushed sooner, then. We can’t have him in Azkaban for something he didn’t even do,” Hermione says briskly, and Draco feels a surge of pride swell in his chest.

His mother nods but doesn’t say anything.

“Harry knows the truth, right? He’ll testify again.” Hermione seems content to do all the talking, all the brainstorming.

“We have to find out why Dolohov, Rookwood, and McNair did this,” Draco says suddenly. “They don’t have evidence it  _ is _ father, circumstantial at best, but you know the jury hates us. We have to find out why the three of those dolts decided now is a good time to reveal themselves and what they were doing here. Also, how they got past the Manor’s wards.”

Narcissa sighs again, her beautiful eyes sad and very weary. “I have a feeling it was Bella. She… may have put in some safeguards for herself and the Dark Lord. I don’t think she trusted us very much.”

Draco leaps up, fury igniting in his silver eyes. “You mean that crazy bitch  _ manipulated our wards so it would let those bloody Death Eaters in? _ ”

“Calm down, Draco,” his mother admonishes, though she looks equally as engaged in her own quiet way. “You know Bellatrix.”

“I’m glad she’s dead,” he mutters.

Hermione’s hand finds his again and squeezes. “We’ll find out,” she promises, and both Malfoys believe her.

Hermione Granger always keeps her promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucius is quickly becoming my favorite character to write... plot twist haha.
> 
> 10/10 was getting major Count of Monte Cristo vibes when writing his part for some strange reason as well.


	18. this is my kingdom come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco stumble on an important discovery that could change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "demons" by imagine dragons
> 
> got a nice, long juicy one for y'all - this is an important one.

**_Malfoy Manor, September 1999_ **

The Malfoy library has quickly become Hermione’s favorite place. It smells of old books and fresh parchment, a beauty mix of new beginnings and eternal romances. But she’s not here to idle about, no, hasn’t been able to do that for weeks.

Hermione and the Malfoys have been on a race against time, aware that with each passing day, Lucius has to endure more of Azkaban. Narcissa knows her husband is strong, but can’t help but feel a pang of deep pain that he has to endure the Godric-forsaken prison once again.

With their connections to the Minister, Hermione and Harry have been able to get Lucius the earliest possible Wizengamot hearing date. Harry, surprisingly, has been quite willing to help; something about his best friend’s pleading eyes and her dedication to the Malfoy family has touched his brotherly heart. He can’t help but think of Sirius, left alone in Azkaban for years after his parents’ death, his godfather who was taken too early and had been gone too long.

He may not have his godfather anymore (and a large part of him knows it was the Malfoys’ fault, Bellatrix’s fault, Voldemort’s fault, but he cannot lay blame at Draco’s feet anymore, not when he was an innocent. Not when Hermione cares for him), but Harry will not let another innocent man waste away in Azkaban while his family waits outside the prison walls.

Hermione approaches this all like another school problem, like one of their impossibly daunting tasks that Dumbledore had circuitously set for the trio of teenagers. She buries her nose deep in books, in newspapers, in Draco and Narcissa’s recounting of the Death Eaters and the war. Briefly, Hermione wonders if she would be suited to the wizarding equivalent of lawyers.

But this she knows — she would never,  _ ever _ represent someone who was guilty.

Besides, these are idle thoughts. She has a task ahead of her, a problem, and Hermione Granger is notoriously good at finding answers.

She  _ is  _ The Insufferable Know-it-All, after all.

Of course, it’s something Draco says that triggers her to find it. He’s taken to lounging around her like an oversized cat, his silvery blonde hair gleaming in the early autumn sunlight. Sometimes he flips through books, sometimes he stares blankly at the empty fireplace, sometimes he bounces ideas off of her. And sometimes he speaks nonsense, random thoughts that spill through his mind like the sunlight dancing off the shadows of his face.

“Imagine if that batty old no-nose had another fail-safe,” he blurts one day, toying absentmindedly with a lock of Hermione’s hair, silver eyes following the way the curls spring up with his touch.

Hermione puts her book down with a  _ thump _ . “Is that possible?” she asks frankly.

His eyes widen; he looks at her fully, quite alarmed. “I dunno. I hadn’t really thought of it, to be honest. We were all quite glad that it was over…”

They’re quiet for a moment; Draco is racking his brain for any possibilities that the Dark Lord could return for a third time and Hermione turns over the idea in her mind as well, a little shudder running down her spine.

“Hermione,” Draco says suddenly, voice serious. “We’d have to ask Mother, but Bellatrix was hiding something. She liked to go on and on about how she’s the favored one, the chosen one — and I thought Potter was bad — but… she was “sick” for a few weeks, unable to go out in the field with us. Bellatrix  _ never _ gets sick and  _ never _ misses a chance to torture people.”

“What are you saying?” Hermione asked, her mind forming around a terrible possibility.

“I think —” Draco stops, shudders, closes his eyes as if in prayer.

“I think Bellatrix was carrying the Dark Lord’s child.”

* * *

**_Azkaban, September 1999_ **

“Where  _ is  _ the child?” Rookwood demands, hissing across the cells. He’s in a separate one than Dolohov and McNair — the Ministry has had the foresight to separate the three of them while they await trial.

Dolohov glares at him. “Be a little more obvious, won’t you, Rookwood? Let’s just tell the whole world about her.”

Rookwood glowers right back. “Everyone’s asleep or insane in this crazy dungeon,” he snaps. “Where did you hide her? Is she safe? She’s our key…”

“She’s safe. Pulled a Dumbledore and Potter situation.” Dolohov smirks, pleased at his own cunning.

Rookwood accepts this, then looks at McNair, who’s busy snoring in the corner. “Useless git,” he mutters, and Dolohov agrees with a nod and a finger in the man’s general direction. “His fault we’re in this mess in the first place. We never should’ve gone to the Malfoys’ this early.”

“He’s a bloody git, but we did need to access the Malfoys’ and trigger the blood magic Bella set in place,” Dolohov says softly, glancing warily at the quiet prison. Rookwood nods begrudgingly and the pair of them fall silent.

Neither of them notice the guard who’s quietly listened the whole time, half-hidden in the dark shadows of the far side of the prison floor. The man pads softly up to Lucius Malfoy’s cell and hands him a scrap of paper with everything he needs to know.

* * *

**_Malfoy Manor, September 1999_ **

“But why did they need to come to the Manor?” Draco asks, throwing his hands up in frustration. They’ve been trying to decipher the problem of Bellatrix’s child for the past few days, but even with Narcissa’s help, they’ve been running in circles.

The dark witch had told no one she was with child, not even her sister, but Narcissa had tried so hard to conceive that she knew all the tell-tale signs of pregnancy, even with the glamour charms his sister used.

And everyone knew that Bellatrix’s husband was no more than a name — that her one true love was her Dark Lord. There was no doubt who the father was.

Though it made Hermione  _ quite _ queasy to imagine the Noseless One sleeping with a human. He was barely human himself.

“They must’ve needed something from the Manor,” Narcissa says thoughtfully. “Bellatrix was crafty. She’s not a Malfoy, but since she had access to the wards and clearly changed them, she may have tried to do something else while she changed them.”

The solution is easy — break down the wards and try to find the changes Bellatrix made.

The way there is not so easy — warding magic was obscure, highly technical, and could be quite dangerous. It was not something to just wander into.

But they’re running out of time — Lucius’s trial is next week, and they’ve come up with no solid evidence that the elder Malfoy was, indeed, no longer a Death Eater. The most they have are Narcissa, Draco, Hermione, and Harry’s testimony.

Not enough to sway a biased and vengeful jury.

Hermione is determined though; she and Harry share a passion for justice, to do what’s  _ right _ , and she knows Lucius Malfoy is innocent. This time. So she dives headfirst into the Malfoys’ extensive collection of books on warding magic, finds old journals from some of the first Malfoys who built the Manor and enacted its wards.

Two days before the trial, she’s fairly certain she can do it. It’s a delicate process, reminding her a little of the board game Operation that she used to play with her parents. One wrong move and the buzzer sounds.

In this case, one wrong move and the buzzer sound could indicate her death.

The Malfoys, it turns out, are not very forgiving to people trying to undo their wards. Figures.

She needs Draco here; his blood and position as the sole Malfoy heir will allow her access to the wards. For a moment, she wonders how Bellatrix managed that part without them knowing, but then remembers — Bellatrix had no shortage of Draco’s blood. He has the physical scars and Cruciatus nerve damage to prove it.

They hold hands in front of the giant rowan tree in the garden, the focus of the Malfoy wards. Draco grasps her left hand tightly, allowing her wand hand to remain free. He is silent, as is she.

Hermione closes her eyes.  _ Clear your mind,  _ she thinks.  _ The first step. _

The book was very clear, once Narcissa and Draco had translated it from French. A clear mind was vital to success — everything from here on out was going to be mental.

She is floating in nothingness, tethered only by the feeling of Draco’s warm fingers wrapped around her own. In her mind, it is white.

Not darkness, as she’d presumed, but rather an almost celestial white that hurts a little to look at for too long. But she does, taking deep, even breaths.

_ Ostende relatorum,  _ she whispers, and suddenly the void is filled with dancing rainbow threads, gossamer and shimmering in against the blinding backdrop. These are the wards, weaving delicately around each other like spiderwebs.

They catch some invisible sunlight, and after a moment, Hermione can tell the threads apart. Blue seems to be the prevalent color, shades ranging from azure to pale cornflower proclaiming protection around the Malfoy estate.

Black threads weave through as well; Hermione’s first instinct is to draw away. But she remembers what the book says — that contrary to popular opinion, black is not always the color of Dark Magic. It can also be used for protection; these are stronger than the blue and are the strings she must hold onto to dispel whatever Bellatrix has created.

After what seems like an eternity of examining the threads, she finds it — a group of strings woven insidiously through the rest of the wards. They’re so faint you have to look hard to find them; they’re a pale, sickly grey — the color of death.

Instantly, without needing confirmation, Hermione knows this is what Sirius saw when he went beyond the veil.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione begins.

_ Praesidio in tenebris,  _ she chants.  _ Praesidio in tenebris.  _ She repeats this five more times, until the spell-chant has been said a total of seven times.

She takes seven deep, even breaths.

With her eyes still closed, she nods at Draco, knowing he is still there in the outside world, watching her every move. She sees without seeing that he has grasped the silver ceremonial knife in his free hand and made a deep, even slice on his forearm. Blood drips into the silver bowl at their feet, and Hermione can almost smell it, can almost taste the acrid tang of metal on her tongue.

She nods again, and she feels the cold bite of the knife against her own forearm. She knows Draco hates doing this, doesn’t want to do it, but also knows that he will. He knows what needs to be done.

A small, even slice on her forearm. Their blood mixing in the ceremonial bowl.

There is no pain; what is pain? Her mind draws the blood out from the bowl, allowing it to coat the sickly grey threads. They shudder, and suddenly, Hermione sees it all: the dark blood magic Bellatrix has placed on the wards, that once the protector of her child, whomever it may be, triggers the ancestral wards, her child would receive the same protection as the Malfoys here.

And her child would be untouchable by the Malfoys. They would not be able to harm her.

A small baby, swaddled in black, green eyes poking out of a pale face, tufts of black hair covering her little head. Bellatrix in a pool of blood, saying over and over again, “ _ I did it.” _

Voldemort eyeing his offspring, bending his head close, whispering, “I have great plans for you, little one.”

Dolohov taking the child in his arms, a blank expression on his face, and disappearing.

No one knew where the child was. No one but Dolohov.

It was safest that way.

Hermione rushes back to the present as the grey threads combust into flames, somehow strengthening the existing wards. With a shaking breath, she looks at the garden around her — it seems brighter, more vibrant.

Draco takes her hand, kisses her deeply. “Are you okay?” he asks softly.

“I’m okay,” she says. “I did it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non Cursed Child canon-compliant. Next chapter will have the trial! Thanks for all of your patience xx
> 
> WARDING:  
> The warding spell / process is based on mediation and a little inspired by all of Terry Goodkind's Sword of Truth books.
> 
> SPELLS USED (that I made up):  
> Ostende relatorum = “show threads” in Latin.  
> Praesidio in tenebris = "protect against the dark" in Latin.
> 
> COLOR MAGIC:  
> “White is useful in magick, as it can act as a stand-in for any other color. It’s essentially a blank slate.
> 
> Blue is a color of peace and protection.
> 
> The color black in and of itself isn't bad — it’s actually most often associated with protection, uncrossing, and can be used to ward off any negative vibes that may be thrown your way.”
> 
> From “Color Magick: A Beginner's Guide to Harnessing the Power of Every Color”


End file.
